The Blitz Girls

Book 0: The Blitz Girls

by Johanna Bell

Genres: Historical Fiction; World War II; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

An uplifting and dramatic new saga series about the women who held the country together in its darkest hour - the heroines of the Blitz. Perfect for fans of Jenny Holmes, Nancy Revell and Margaret Dickinson.

A heartwarming and gripping new saga series from the author of The Bobby Girls

Their country needs them. They need each other.

August, 1940. The war is raging in Europe, but on the home front conflict still seems far away.

Dot, living with her mother-in-law and dreading the day that her thuggish husband comes home on leave, is fighting her own battle to contribute to the war effort. Peggy has found confidence as an Air Raid Precaution Warden, despite the jeers of the men she works with - but beneath her pluck she fears for her close-knit family, scattered by the war. And glamorous Vivian, the former debutante, is running away from her own heart and into danger as a volunteer ambulance driver.

Then the bombs begin to fall over London, and all their lives are turned upside down. Thrown together into an unlikely friendship, can the Blitz Girls protect their country - and each other - in the darkest hour?

Praise for Johanna Bell:

'I really did enjoy The Bobby Girls. It has a lovely warm feeling about it and is excellently written.' - Maureen Lee, RNA award-winning author of Dancing in the Dark

'A well-researched and interesting story giving a great insight into early women's policing.' - Anna Jacobs, bestselling author of the Ellindale series

'Written with warmth and compassion, the novel gives fascinating insights into the lives of three courageous young women.' - Margaret Kaine, RNA award-winning author of Ring of Clay

'Johanna Bell has hit the jackpot with this striking WW1 crime story. The author places the focus firmly on the girls' growth into independent members of society in a rapidly changing world.' - Jenny Holmes, author of The Spitfire Girls

'This is a story that needed to be told. As a former Special Constable, I love Johanna Bell from the bottom of my heart for giving a voice to the women who first made a way for me and countless others like me - to work as real police officers in the service of our communities.' - Penny Thorpe, author of The Quality Street Girls

(P) 2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: April 6, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Prologue

The sickening wail of a falling bomb filled the air as the ambulance driver carefully negotiated her ­vehicle around the wreckage. The noise was becoming far too ­familiar. The air-raid sirens had sounded just twenty ­minutes before, and already the streets of Chelsea were full of destruction. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath when she spotted some poor soul’s severed leg at the side of the road. She kept her eyes fixed forward, then, not keen on discovering the rest of the body. There was no point in stopping here to help – she knew from experience that there was nothing to be done.

Making her way towards her destination, she was momentarily grateful for the fact she had some help to guide her on her way. She had grown accustomed to driving through the streets of London in the dark since the blackout had been imposed, but tonight there was light to guide her – only it was coming from the burning caused by incendiary bombs and explosions. A red glow filled the sky. She suddenly wished it was pitch black again, and that her route wasn’t being lit up by the bonfire caused by people’s homes and businesses – and lives – being destroyed. But as everyone around her scrambled for safety and shelter, she kept driving towards the danger that the city’s nightly visitors were inflicting. It’s what she had done most evenings since the Germans had started their relentless attacks on London a week before. To block out the terror that she felt, she tried to focus on how many people she and her partner could help get to medical aid.

Turning into Upper Cheyne Row, she felt bile rising in her throat. When the call had come in, they had only been given the street name. She had hoped all the way here that the public shelter hadn’t been hit, but there was no denying now that she was here that the Catholic Church of our Most Holy Redeemer and St Thomas More had taken a direct hit. She felt sick thinking about how many innocent people would have been sheltering in the crypt when the bomb had ripped through it. The one place they would have felt safe.

Searching around for an ARP warden, she spotted Dot and Peggy waving her over. She parked up a few houses down from the church – as close as she could get without shredding the tyres to pieces – and took a moment to digest the rubble and flames before leaping into action.

‘What a night to work your first shift,’ she said as lightly as she could manage to Dot as they all made their way towards the smouldering wreckage. She tried to block out the groaning and wailing that she could already hear coming from trapped survivors.

‘I don’t think there was ever going to be a good night to start,’ Dot replied, fixing her hat and smiling weakly. ­Suddenly, a worrying thought popped into Vivian’s head. She had run into this woman on her way home recently – and it hadn’t been far from here. She didn’t want to ask the question – too afraid of the answer. But she had to.

‘Do you know anybody who was in there tonight?’

Tears filled the warden’s eyes despite her obvious attempts to stop them. Peggy, who hadn’t yet taken her eyes off the flames licking the sky, took hold of Dot’s hand as they both continued to stare at the horror in front of them, and when she spoke her voice was shaking.

‘We both do.’

1

Two weeks earlier

London, 1 September 1940

Dot Simmonds fiddled with the pages of her ration book as she waited in line at Woolton and Son greengrocer’s. She could hear Mrs Parker striking up a conversation with Mrs Woolton as she rang up her shopping, and there was an audible sigh of frustration from further down the queue. Everybody in their little corner of Chelsea knew that once Mrs Parker got started it was difficult to end the exchange. They could be stuck here for another ten minutes while the lonely old dear regaled Mrs Woolton with all the gory details of her latest ailments. When she had cut her finger making a vegetable stew, she’d spent so long telling Mr Wyatt at the butcher’s next door about it that he’d been forced to shut up shop an hour later than usual.

Dot smiled to herself, grateful to her neighbour for adding time to her trip. Most people Dot knew groaned about the queues for groceries these days. It had grown gradually worse since rationing had been introduced at the beginning of the year. Back then they were only rationing butter, bacon and sugar. These days, meat, tea and even margarine had been added to the list. It seemed that you couldn’t pop out for anything without getting caught up in a long wait. But while everybody else seemed to get upset about anything that delayed their onward journey – like Mrs Parker holding up the queue as she nattered – Dot welcomed the hindrance. In fact, she quite enjoyed it.

Dot’s weekly trip to Woolton and Son for the household shopping was the highlight of her week, because it gave her a break from Beryl. Dot had been stuck at home alone with her mother-in-law since her husband Tommy had joined the Royal Engineers in April. Dot had never quite hit it off with Beryl. Tommy was the older woman’s only son and she had leaned on him for support ever since his father died five years before. Tommy had even left a well-paid job in the north of the country to move in with his mother after his father’s death. Dot hadn’t thought there’d been anything wrong with them being so close – in fact she’d believed a strong bond between mother and son suggested a good, reliable and caring man. And, besides, Dot would probably have never met Tommy if he had stayed up north instead of moving to London to look after his mother. She had all but given up on finding love after years of ­loneliness – all the men in Chelsea had seemed to either be taken or downright awful.

So, Tommy had walked into her life like a breath of fresh air just when she had decided she needed to come to terms with living out the rest of her days as a spinster. Dot could still picture the way he’d grinned at her when he’d first come to her father’s garage to work for him – how romantic he’d been then. Thinking back now, she realised she had been so desperate to settle down and get married that she had made it quite easy for Tommy to sweep her off her feet. But sweep her off her feet he had done, and they had been happy for a time. She smiled as she remembered how good he had been at making her laugh in the early days of their relationship. And how he’d made her feel so special. But that was before she’d known what married life was really like.

After losing her own mother when she’d been a ­teenager, Dot had been desperate to form a close bond with ­Tommy’s mother when they’d first met. But every effort she made seemed to be thrown back in her face; Dot felt as if she couldn’t do anything right in Beryl’s eyes. The older woman had been unwilling to let go when Tommy had met Dot, and just refused to accept her no matter how hard she tried. To make matters worse, Tommy appeared to be completely oblivious to the tension between the women. Instead of ­trying to help his mother understand there was room enough for the two of them in his life, Tommy ignored ­Beryl’s ­possessive behaviour and appeared to suffer bouts of blindness and deafness whenever his mother said anything out of turn to his wife – which she often did.

When Tommy and Dot had first started courting, Dot had tried on occasion to talk to him about it, but he’d been so ­protective of his mother that the conversation had never ended well. Then he would say something to make Dot laugh and her heart would soften and she would forget why she had felt so upset. When she had complained about it to her friends all those years ago, they had asked why she put up with it and that was when Dot had realised she was in love with Tommy.

‘When you fall in love with somebody, you fall in love with every part of them – faults and all,’ she’d said with a shrug. They had wed soon after and, suddenly, putting up with Beryl had seemed bearable if it meant Dot had ­Tommy’s devotion.

Mrs Parker finally finished her monologue and a tired-­looking Mrs Woolton waved forward the next customer. Dot noticed the woman’s blue air-raid-warden overalls and felt a wave of sadness sweep over her. Dot was desperate to do her bit for the war effort but, instead, she was stuck at home all day every day with Beryl. Tommy had never wanted Dot to work. When they’d married, she had been excited about finding work as a receptionist – she had spent many years helping out on the reception at her father’s garage, after all. But as soon as they were living under the same roof, Tommy had insisted she focus on starting a family. She had planned on asking her father for support in convincing Tommy that she was capable of manning the reception at the garage at least, but her beloved daddy had died a few months after their ­wedding. Tommy had taken over the business and Dot’s dreams of a career had died along with her father.

As the queue shuffled forward again, Dot noticed a poster in the window. She was pulled in at once by the picture across the top of women walking together with purpose, and the striking photograph of a woman in a gas mask. Dot read the text with interest:

ARP

It’s the women we need . . .

Women ambulance drivers, women wardens, ­women for first aid and casualty stations.

ENROL AT ONCE!

Of course, when women had started signing up to help keep the country running as the men went off to fight, Dot had been keen to get involved. But she hadn’t mentioned it to Tommy. He’d made it clear that Dot getting a job was out of the question, and he’d been so relieved that she was going to be at home to look after his mother while he was away that she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. How could she tell him that she’d much rather be out on the streets putting her life at risk to help others than sitting at home with Beryl? It would break his heart and she couldn’t do that to the man she loved. Her ‘job’ these days seemed to be making sure Beryl was fed and watered and that her house was clean and tidy, when Dot knew full well that her mother-in-law was capable of taking care of all of that herself.

‘Are you thinking of volunteering?’ A voice cut into Dot’s thoughts, making her jump. She’d been so caught up in ­imagining herself out on the streets, rounding people up and guiding them to safety, that she hadn’t even noticed the queue ahead moving forward again, much less the ARP ­warden ­paying for her shopping and walking back towards her. Dot took in her overalls now, as she tried to come up with a response that didn’t make her sound terribly pathetic. My husband won’t let me was the truth, but there was no question of her admitting that – especially not to someone who was clearly very brave and selfless. This warden was also younger than Dot – she must only have been in her early twenties while Dot was almost thirty. The realisation made her feel even more wretched.

‘Oh, erm . . . I have a lot on, caring for my mother-in-law, and looking after the house,’ Dot stuttered, avoiding eye ­contact. She was ashamed of her lie, and she knew it sounded pitiful – but it was better than being honest.

‘That’s a shame. We could do with some more plucky women on our side. You look like you know how to stand up for yourself.’ Dot could feel her cheeks flaming red as she smiled apologetically and shrugged her shoulders. As the woman walked away, Dot wondered what had given her the idea that she could stand up for herself. She might have thought that about herself many years ago, but ­married life and a nit-picking mother-in-law had drained all the fight out of her.

Walking home with her shopping, Dot couldn’t stop thinking about the friendly air-raid warden and the exciting life that could open up to her if she signed up to volunteer. Of course, it would be dangerous – but war in itself was dangerous. She was at risk just by being in London. What more peril would she put herself in by trying to help those around her? Besides, despite all the talk of air raids, and all the preparations the country had gone to, nothing much had happened so far. There had been some bombs dropped on the East End a week or so before, but, after the initial panic and Churchill’s orders to retaliate on Berlin, nothing had come of it all. The city had emptied out following France’s surrender to Germany back in June but, even then, none of the feared aerial bombardments had followed. People who’d fled to the countryside had now started returning, and even some of the children evacuated at the start of the war were being sent home to their families.

Would it be so bad if she volunteered to help make sure people stuck to the blackout and got to shelters safely when the regular false alarms sounded? Dot wondered. When she turned the corner into Lawrence Street and the Simmonds’ terraced house came into view, Dot’s heart did its usual drop. Shaking her head and laughing lightly, she pushed all thoughts of signing up to volunteer to the back of her mind. What had she been thinking? Clearly, she wasn’t going to become an air-raid warden. Tommy wouldn’t even let her get a job in an office, for goodness’ sake! But then, Tommy wasn’t here . . .

Stop! She scolded the naughty little voice in her head. Yes, she was frustrated with her life, but it was no reason to rock the boat and cause problems with Tommy. There was ­absolutely no way she would be able to keep it from him, anyway, not with Beryl breathing down her neck. Dot had to admit, though, that it had been fun to entertain the idea – even if it had been very briefly.

With a long sigh, Dot opened the front door and waited for Beryl’s tedious voice to ring out. When she was met with silence, she walked quietly along the hallway and peered into the living room, hopeful that her mother-in-law had fallen asleep in her armchair after eating the breakfast Dot had left out for her. Beryl was never up before 9 a.m. and yet she regularly dozed in her favourite chair after stuffing her face. Dot had made the mistake of sitting in the seat one afternoon shortly after she and Tommy had started ­courting. The old woman had let out a shriek so loud it had probably woken the baby five doors down. Such was the fuss that Beryl had made, Dot had worried she’d failed to spot a cherished pet on the chair and managed to sit on a cat and squash it without ­realising. But after jumping back to her feet and checking, she’d found the spot empty.

‘Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?’ Beryl had roared as she’d shoved Dot out of the way and plonked ­herself down on the chair. ‘You’d think she’d check before ­making herself at home,’ she added as a quiet aside to Tommy, tutting as she picked up a newspaper and turned all her attention to that. Dot looked to Tommy for backup; surely, he wasn’t going to let his mother talk to her like that just because she’d sat in her chair? But he simply gave Dot the cheeky wink that always made her knees go weak and waved her through to the kitchen where he proceeded to make a pot of tea as if nothing had happened. She went to protest but he leaned over and kissed her so passionately that she thought she was going to lose her balance. She couldn’t be upset with him after that.

Dot often thought back to that first encounter with Beryl and wondered why she hadn’t run a mile. Well, she had a pretty good idea – it was Tommy’s charm that had won her over every time. But she should have known then that Tommy would always put his mother first, no matter how awful the woman was being to her. Maybe she had overlooked the ­negative signs in her desperation to settle down before she was too old, and with no other prospects in sight. She’d felt so relieved when Tommy had shown interest in her that she’d been worried about messing things up. Of course, she felt guilty for thinking that way – she did love Tommy. But they had certainly faced a lot of obstacles during their time together, and his mother was one of the biggest. Dot felt a pang of longing when she thought back to the early days with Tommy – things had been so fun and easy between them. Where had it all gone wrong? Had he turned off the charm, or was she just blind to it now?

‘You took your time,’ Beryl snapped. Dot took a deep breath and walked through the living room to the kitchen to unpack the shopping. This is where it all went wrong, she thought bitterly, looking at Beryl. But then she scolded herself. She couldn’t put all the blame on her mother-in-law. Tommy had changed, too.

‘It was busy at Woolton’s. I got stuck behind Mrs Parker again. She burned her finger this week.’

‘Silly old fool. They should have sent ’er off to the countryside when they got rid of ’er grandchildren. ’Ere, that egg you left me was too runny. You know they make me sick if they’re too runny.’

Dot bit her tongue. She couldn’t remember a time when Beryl had thanked her for doing anything. She was often left wishing she hadn’t bothered. But, as awful as Beryl was to her, Dot just wasn’t the kind of person who would do – or not do – something to spite somebody. She’d been making an egg for herself that morning so it had been no bother to do an extra one for her mother-in-law, although she wondered now if she would have been met with less criticism if she had only looked after herself.

‘Maybe it’s not your cooking, though,’ Beryl ­continued. ‘June at number thirty says eggs lose their quality the ­further they travel.’ Dot stopped what she was doing. Was Beryl being nice to her? Maybe the runny egg really had made her sick. ‘Of course, if you’d managed to give me a grandchild by now, then we wouldn’t have this problem, would we? We’d ’ave been packed off to a lovely ­little ­country cottage with the little ’un when the war had started, where we’d be able to get eggs straight from the hen.’ Dot turned to look at Beryl, who put on her glasses and picked up her newspaper. ‘Just imagine the quality of those eggs!’ she exclaimed as she shook out the news­paper and started to read intently. Shame rushed through Dot. She hated how other women judged her because she hadn’t been able to give her husband a child yet. On her worst days, she feared it was the cause of Tommy’s coldness towards her. And she hated how Beryl constantly used the fact to put her down.

‘Make us a cuppa while you’re up, would you, ­Dorothy?’ And that was another thing. Beryl insisted on calling her ­Dorothy even though she knew full well that she didn’t like people using her full name. She much preferred Dot – it was fun, young and friendly. And her own mother had always called her by the shortened version. But she’d given up asking Beryl to stop using her full name. She suspected she did it out of spite now, so she tried her hardest not to bristle when Beryl addressed her. A knock at the door made both women jump. Dot wiped the tears of anger and frustration that had formed in the corners of her eyes and she stomped past Beryl to the front door. She knew that the lazy so-and-so wouldn’t even consider getting up to answer it herself.

Dot was surprised to find the air-raid warden from ­Woolton’s standing on the street outside. The sun behind her seemed to glisten off the strands of dark hair which had escaped from the ponytail hidden beneath her tin hat. Dot could see her own face reflected back in the woman’s big brown eyes.

‘Hello again,’ the warden said with a laugh. ‘I’m Peggy Miller. I’m just doing the rounds to check on blackout preparations. Are you getting on all right with it all so far?’

‘Dot Simmonds. And we’re doing just fine, thank you.’ Dot smiled. ‘There’s no light coming out of these ­windows after dark.’

‘For what good it’s doing!’ Beryl bellowed from the ­living room. Dot flushed crimson and gave Peggy an ­apologetic look. ‘Waste of time, all this blackout ­nonsense! The shelter they made my Tommy build in the garden was a waste of effort, too! And you lot – you’re just ­busybodies – everyone knows ARP stands for ’­anging round pubs!’ Embarrassed, Dot stepped out of the house and pulled the door to behind her.

‘I’m so sorry about that. My mother-in-law’s convinced the bombs are never coming but I keep telling her we need to be prepared. Especially now Churchill has retaliated on Berlin.’ She wasn’t convinced herself that more bombs were on the way – surely, they would have landed by now. But this Peggy seemed like a lovely girl, and she admired what she was doing, even if it did appear to be in vain.

‘Don’t worry, I come across the same kind of resistance every day. But they’ll all be grateful of us when the proper bombing starts up.’ Dot nodded meekly. She hoped Peggy was wrong – on the bomb front, at least. ‘Are you sure you won’t sign up? She doesn’t seem like she needs much looking after, if you don’t mind my ­saying,’ Peggy added quietly, nodding towards the door. Dot cleared her throat awkwardly.

‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for it. I can’t even stand up to my mother-in-law. I’m not sure I’d cope with everything you have to put up with.’

‘I think you might surprise yourself,’ Peggy said confidently. ‘If you can deal with an old battle-axe like that, then I reckon you can deal with anything.’ Dot couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Sorry,’ Peggy added hastily. ‘I know she’s your family.’

‘Oh, goodness, don’t apologise.’ Dot smiled. ‘I’ll think about it, all right?’

‘Make sure you do,’ Peggy sang out as she made her way along the street. Watching her go, Dot allowed herself once more to imagine what it would be like to volunteer as a ­warden and finally have a sense of purpose.

‘I’m dying of thirst here, Dorothy!’ Beryl’s voice screeched through the gap in the door, and she was pulled back into her mundane, miserable life once more.

2

As she poured out tea into the mismatched row of mugs, Peggy took a deep breath and whispered to herself, ‘Please keep the bombs away for another night.’

‘What was that, Pegs? You doing your praying business again?’ Stan called out from across the dining hall and into the kitchen. Peggy ignored her colleague and continued making the round of teas. She often volunteered to make the hot drinks when she was on duty and waiting for a possible call-out at their ARP base at Cook’s Ground School in Old Church Street. She didn’t particularly enjoy the task, but it gave her space from Stan – the only air-raid warden at the base who didn’t seem to be able to accept a woman in the same role as him. He put her down at every opportunity and, although the rest of her male colleagues showed her respect and were kind to her, they rarely stuck up for her in front of Stan. She could understand why – he was a nasty piece of work and nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of him. Whenever they interacted, he was downright hostile towards her. And if he wasn’t being mean, then he was acting creepy. She wasn’t sure which one she disliked more.

Peggy knew Stan picked on her because, as well as being an easy target, she was a woman in a ‘man’s job’ – although that phrase annoyed her because the Air Raid Wardens’ ­Service was actively looking for women to join the ranks now. She deserved to be there just as much as he did. And she had done all the same training as him. But there were still a lot of men around who just couldn’t accept women stepping up to help where they could – and trust her to get stuck with one of them. Sometimes she wished the elusive bombs would drop on Chelsea so that she would get a chance to prove herself, but then she told herself off for hoping for such a dreadful thing.

‘Hitler’s not gonna listen to you, love – you just keep on doing what you’re good at,’ Stan called from the doorway, nodding towards the teapot and laughing to himself. Peggy rolled her eyes at the plump, balding lump of a man – he always seemed to be hanging around when she was having a rest break. As usual, there was no backup from any of her other colleagues.

There were warden posts every five or six hundred yards in London, with a maximum of ten posts per square mile. It meant that nobody was ever more than a half-mil. . .