The Girl from London

by Olivia Spooner

Genres: General Fiction; World War II; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

London, 1940. Ruth, a young schoolteacher, volunteers as an escort helping to evacuate children from war-torn England to Australia and New Zealand. Her three-month voyage is fraught - their passage is perilous, and the children anxious and homesick. Nine-year-old Fergus is more troubled than most and Ruth forms an unexpected bond with the boy.

It's not just Fergus who captures Ruth's attention. Bobby, a fellow volunteer who initially infuriates Ruth with his laidback charm, somehow gets under her skin and throws her ordered life into chaos.

Tragedy strikes on their return voyage, when the Rangitane is attacked by German raiders. As the ship goes down, the surviving passengers are taken as prisoners of war aboard the German vessel. To the rest of the world, they are missing, presumed dead.

New Zealand 2005. Hazel boards a plane to London, eager to explore Europe. Sitting next to her is a man named Joe. On her lap is a treasured book from her grandfather, Fergus. A book that will finally reveal Ruth's story.

A captivating, heart-wrenching story of love, loss, and the resilience of the human spirit that will stay with you long after you turn the final page.

Release date: November 14, 2023

Publisher: Hachette New Zealand

Print pages: 384

Sample

It was too late to change her mind. Hazel hadn’t truly believed she’d be brave enough – or was it foolish? – to go through with it, but here she was at the Auckland Airport drop-off zone, about to board a plane to London.

London, England, where instead of being midday on a warm spring Thursday, it was currently midnight on a chilly autumn Wednesday. Incredulity ballooned in Hazel’s chest, and she had a sudden recollection from almost two decades ago, when she’d scattered carrots on the back lawn for Santa’s reindeer and on Christmas morning had run from one half-eaten carrot to the next, exclaiming in wonder, ‘They’ve taken a bite out of this one too, Gramps, look!’

Gramps turned the key now and the engine fell silent. He stared intently at the windscreen, and Hazel could hear the faint whistle in his chest – an insidious new frailty they both chose to ignore. ‘No turning back now,’ he said, eyes still fixed ahead. His wrinkled left hand shook as he reached up to tap the top of his tartan cheesecutter – a habit so familiar to Hazel it made her heart contract. Her grandfather lived in that hat.

‘Before you go, I … I want to give you something,’ he said gruffly.

‘You’ve already given me so much, Gramps. I don’t –’

Gramps turned to look at her and she stopped mid-sentence. It wasn’t often she bore the brunt of that fierce expression, which had earned him a reputation as a curmudgeon, though Hazel knew that beneath his grim demeanour was a kind and thoughtful soul.

He reached awkwardly behind him and dug about in the footwell, pulling out a small, faded green book. It was the kind of thing Hazel’s eyes would have passed over and dismissed at a garage sale. As her grandfather thrust it at her, she wrinkled her nose at the musty, mildewy smell. ‘Thanks, Gramps, but I’ve already got a book for the flight.’

‘It’s about me,’ he told her. ‘How I ended up here in New Zealand.’

‘Your evacuation as a child during the war?’ Hazel asked, surprised. She had long given up asking Gramps about his early childhood in Glasgow and his journey to New Zealand. He’d made it clear any talk of his life before or during the war was forbidden territory. ‘It’s in the past for a reason,’ he would say curtly.

Hazel read the title – Oceans Apart – then glanced up at her grandfather.

‘With you heading off to London, it feels only fitting you should’ – his breathing seemed a little laboured now – ‘you should know her story.’

‘Her story? I thought you said the book was about you.’

‘I never told you about Ruth, but I should have. In fact, you often remind me of her. Only it was hard … to mention her would have … she was …’ Gramps stared at the book in Hazel’s hand, suddenly seeming very far away. ‘She was important to me,’ he finished. He drew a breath and then erupted into a hacking cough that brought tears to his eyes. ‘Damn body,’ he muttered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

Hazel threw her arms around his neck and rested a cheek against his old maroon cardigan. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said softly. ‘And I promise I’ll read the book on the plane.’

She felt his arms go around her and was reassured by the strength with which he hugged her back. She was even more reassured when he muttered, ‘It’s bound to be better than most of the trash you like to read.’

She smiled and released him. ‘You don’t need to get out of the car,’ she said, kissing him quickly on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I can.’

Tucking the book into her shoulder bag, Hazel climbed out of the car and hurried around to heave her suitcase from the boot. It took her two attempts to slam the boot of the rusty old Escort closed.

She wheeled her suitcase to his open window and leant down. ‘Bye, Gramps,’ she said, a lump forming in her throat. ‘Don’t forget to use the new inhaler every day.’

‘I’ll be right as rain, my girl – now go have an adventure or two.’

He started the engine, obviously eager to make a hasty exit, and Hazel smiled. She knew how much he disliked goodbyes. Only when he’d disappeared from view did she let the smile slip from her face. She turned towards the departure terminal. ‘Let’s do this,’ she said to herself, straightening her shoulders and striding towards the doors.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Hazel gasped, watching as a brown splotch bloomed on the stranger’s pale blue t-shirt.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered, staring at the offending stain.

The past two hours had been one stressful episode after another. First, Hazel had waited over an hour to check in (she’d never stood in a queue for so long in her life), then she’d been taken aside at the security screening because she’d forgotten to take out the small pocketknife she always carried in the small zipper compartment inside her bag. Then she’d got lost trying to find her gate, and ended up running for what felt like several kilometres, only to arrive hot and flustered to discover the flight had been delayed. She’d been so desperately thirsty she’d backtracked to the nearest vending machine and had taken a couple of desperate gulps of her drink as she’d walked briskly back to the gate, worried they might have started boarding. She wasn’t watching as she turned the corner, and smacked straight into the poor guy who now had a Coke stain the shape of Africa on his front.

He lifted his head, and Hazel waited for him to let rip. He was quite pale, she noticed; surely she hadn’t given him that much of a shock. His hair was a shaggy mess and his stubbly beard was dark blond with flecks of ginger. In his tracksuit pants and Nikes he could have been a student straight from Dunedin, but surely he was too old; he looked at least thirty.

‘I really am sorry,’ Hazel told him.

He shrugged. ‘It’s no bother.’

He gave her a half-smile, half-grimace, then turned and walked over to a row of plastic seats. He sat, dropping a tatty bag onto the floor by his feet. Leaning back, he shut his eyes.

The guy had a whopping great stain down his front. Wasn’t he even going to attempt to rinse it out?

Hazel drank the rest of her Coke – wishing she hadn’t wasted so much of it ruining a stranger’s t-shirt – then dropped the can in a rubbish bin and walked over to the windows. Soon that giant plane outside would be lifting her up, up and away.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

Hazel glanced up at the flight attendant. ‘Yes?’ she said nervously. She’d only been sitting for a couple of minutes. Had she done something wrong already?

‘There’s been a little mix-up, and I’m afraid Mrs Jenkins there’ – the flight attendant dipped her head towards the elderly woman sitting next to Hazel – ‘has been seated on her own. Her husband is further down the back and he wondered if you might consider switching seats so they can sit together?’

There was only one correct answer, and Hazel gave it.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, smiling. She pulled her book from the pocket of the seat in front, picked up her shoulder bag and stood up.

The flight attendant led her to her new seat. It was on the aisle, at least, she noted – and then her eyes widened in dismay as she realised who she would be sitting next to. He had his head tipped back against his seat, his eyes closed yet again and a large brown stain down his front.

‘Thanks,’ Hazel muttered. She edged into her seat, careful not to disturb her neighbour. Unfortunately, as she lifted her shoulder bag off her lap, her book slipped out and landed directly in his crotch.

He sat up with a start.

‘Hi,’ said Hazel. ‘Sorry again.’

He just stared at her for several long seconds, then held out her book. ‘I’m assuming this is yours.’

Hazel thought she detected a hint of a smile on his face but she couldn’t be sure.

‘Believe it or not, that was actually an accident,’ she said. ‘And contrary to how it might appear, I’ve not been put on this earth to make your life a misery.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ he asked. His accent was English, she thought.

Hazel wrinkled her nose. ‘I guess I can’t. We’ll just have to hope.’

He nodded once, then closed his eyes again, dismissing her.

What a jerk! Hazel thought. He could have introduced himself, at least.

‘I’m Hazel,’ she said loudly.

‘Joe,’ he murmured, without opening his eyes.

‘Are you British?’ she asked, refusing to be defeated.

‘Yes.’

When he didn’t offer anything more, Hazel gave up. ‘That explains it,’ she said, more to herself than him, as she extracted the safety card from the seat pocket and began to examine it. Was she supposed to be reassured by the picture of a person leaning forward with their hands on top of their head? How was that going to help if the plane crashed headlong into the Pacific Ocean?

‘Explains what?’

Hazel looked up. The guy – Joe – was staring at her. ‘Nothing.’

He studied her a little longer, his dark blue eyes unreadable, then shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘You’re reserved,’ Hazel blurted.

‘And you’ve bought into the stereotype. I’m British, therefore I must be repressed.’

‘I said reserved, not repressed.’

‘You’re Kiwi, which means you think it’s perfectly acceptable to be overly friendly towards anyone, even when they’re trying hard to signal they want to be left alone.’

Hazel wished she could tell the flight attendant she’d changed her mind and return to her original seat. She wanted to get as far away from this asshole as possible.

He must have read something in her expression because he sat up straighter. ‘I’m sorry – I meant that as a joke, but I can see you didn’t take it that way.’

‘You think?’ Hazel hoped he could detect her sarcasm.

His smile appeared so suddenly it caught Hazel by surprise. It was as if his whole face lit up.

‘Perhaps we should start again.’ Joe held out his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Joe, I’m a reserved Londoner, and I had no sleep last night or the night before that.’

As they shook, Hazel was pleased to note that his grip was firm but not overconfident.

‘I’m Hazel, a Kiwi who has never travelled out of her home country before and who has an unfortunate habit of spilling drinks on unsuspecting strangers.’

Joe laughed. ‘So I’m not your first then?’

Hazel raised her eyebrows. ‘No, Joe, you’re not my first.’ Oh God, she’d gone and flirted with him. What was wrong with her? It was his stupid big smile that had done it. Also, she was nervous, and when she was nervous, she flirted. It was a bad habit she needed to break.

Joe shifted back in his seat. ‘So, are you going through to London or stopping at LA?’

‘I’m going all the way.’ Oh God, why had she said that? She hadn’t even registered the double entendre until too late.

‘Right.’ The smile was gone now, his face once again pale and strained. ‘Are you going for a holiday or work?’

‘It’s a working holiday, I guess,’ said Hazel. ‘I have a job lined up.’

‘Brilliant.’

Hazel shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

The stilted exchange was interrupted when an immaculately made-up woman tapped Hazel on the shoulder. ‘That’s my seat,’ she said, indicating the window.

Hazel shuffled into the aisle and Joe did the same. They waited in silence as the woman took an inordinately long time to put her expensive-looking carry-on in the overhead locker, remove her leather jacket and inch her way into her seat.

Avoiding eye contact with Joe, Hazel pretended to be interested in a comic the small boy sitting opposite was reading. She sighed with relief when Joe returned to his seat, tilted his head back and once again closed his eyes.

Hazel turned her attention to the book Gramps had pressed on her. It was strange, she thought; all these years of silence on the subject of his past, and now this. But how had there come to be a book about her grandfather’s journey from Glasgow to New Zealand? she wondered. And who was this Ruth he’d mentioned?

She opened to the first page and began to read.

Propped against the pillows, Ruth was struggling to keep her eyes open as she read The Times; the mid-afternoon heat was making her drowsy. Still, knowing how important it was to keep up to date with the war news, she resisted the pull of sleep.

She turned the page and her eyes immediately moved to the bottom right-hand corner of page four. The headline glowed, as if printed with luminescent ink. She quickly scanned the article then sat up. ‘Peter, listen to this.’

Her fiancé glanced up from his seat at the small table beside the window. He’d been polishing his recently issued boots for the last half-hour. ‘Hm?’

Ruth swung her legs over the side of the bed and began to read aloud. ‘The Children’s Overseas Reception Board, otherwise known as CORB, are calling on volunteers to act as escorts for children being transported to the dominions as part of the overseas evacuation scheme. We ask for those with experience working with children to apply to the below address. Knowledge of the dominions would be useful though not essential.’ Ruth looked up at Peter, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘Well, what do you think?’

He frowned and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe any parent would contemplate sending their child to the other side of the world. Or that Churchill would let them go. Hardly a great show of confidence.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘One minute he’s saying we’ll stand firm against the enemy, the next he’s telling us to abandon ship.’

‘He’s putting poor, innocent children out of harm’s way,’ Ruth objected. ‘And what mother wouldn’t want her child to be sent somewhere safe? I haven’t been able to get the looks on the faces of Mrs Hamble’s little ones out of my head all day. Imagine how you would have felt as a young boy, being woken in the middle of the night by screaming sirens, rushing to a shelter while clutching a gasmask and wondering if your house would still be standing in the morning or would be blown to smithereens.’ Ruth’s breath caught in her throat as an image leapt into her head of Brenda trapped in rubble calling for help. She forced the image away, her chest tight. ‘You would have been terrified.’

Peter smiled and shook his head again. ‘Dearest, you have permanent blinkers on where children are involved. Most young lads find all this thrilling. I expect I would have been the same. It’s exciting, Ruth. Invigorating.’

‘War is invigorating?’ Ruth frowned at him. ‘That’s an awful thing to say.’

Peter shrugged. ‘London is buzzing. You said so yourself. It’s like we’ve been jolted into life.’

Ruth threw the paper onto the bed and stood up. The strap of her satin slip had fallen off her shoulder, and she yanked it back up. ‘I said it was chaotic, Peter. Barbed wire going up everywhere, drilling all day and night, sandbagging, these constant ghastly air raids. It’s nervous energy out there, not – not what you’re implying.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘That somehow this is a good thing.’

Pushing back his chair abruptly, Peter took four short paces across Ruth’s bedsit to the tiny kitchen tucked into one corner. He threw a wad of screwed-up newspaper stained with black shoe polish into the rubbish bin, then washed his hands in the sink.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ruth said. ‘That wasn’t fair.’ She went to stand behind him, slipping her arms around his waist and resting her head between his shoulder blades. ‘I simply can’t bear the thought of you going. And I … well, I want to go somewhere too. Be useful. I don’t want to stay here and simply wait.’

Peter turned and placed his wet hands lightly on Ruth’s arms. She shivered at the sudden cold on her hot skin. He kissed her on the top of her thick dark curls. ‘I thought you were going to stay with your aunt in the country,’ he said. ‘Away from danger.’

Ruth narrowed her eyes. ‘I never said any such thing.’

‘Your mother told me last night at dinner.’

Scowling, Ruth retrieved the newspaper from the bed and took it to the table, pressing it flat to read the article again. ‘Mother believes if she wants something, it happens,’ she muttered. ‘That’s another reason to apply. I need to get away from her meddling in my life.’

‘Wait.’ Peter strode over, took Ruth’s elbow and turned her towards him. ‘You’re not seriously contemplating applying to be an escort? That’s ludicrous, Ruth.’

‘I’m a teacher, I’ve spent time in New Zealand – I’m exactly the type of person they’re looking for.’

‘But we’re to be married. And there is so much you could be doing here for the war effort.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, Ruth, you could volunteer for all sorts of things. You’re needed here in England, not on some boat entertaining children.’

‘It’s important work, Peter.’

‘It’s running away from the war, Ruth – and me.’

Ruth crossed her arms. ‘You’re the one who’s disappearing off to France or some other dreadful place.’

Peter dropped his hand from Ruth’s arm and stared at her till she averted her eyes. ‘I’m going to fight for the freedom of our country,’ he said quietly. ‘I would have hoped you would be proud of me.’

Ruth looked back at him, her eyes filling with tears of frustration. ‘I am. And I thought you’d be proud of me applying for this.’ She jabbed a finger at the newspaper. ‘Instead, you want me to go and hide away with my mother, of all people.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You know, you have a habit of doing this, Ruth.’

‘What?’

‘Rushing into things without thinking it through. I love that you’re impulsive, but sometimes you need to recognise the compulsion within yourself. Take time to consider the wider picture.’

‘When have I ever done something without thinking?’

‘This bedsit?’ Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

Ruth put her hands on her hips. ‘How was I to know it was above a butcher shop when my cousin mentioned it? Besides, I rented this for both of us. You were complaining about how little time we got alone. And we’ve got used to the smell, you said so yourself. Plus, it’s handy having the bus stop right outside.’

‘Those buses run all night long, Ruth. One day the glass is going to fall out of your window from all the rattling. And you never even thought to come and have a look first. You just said you’d take it, sight unseen. Would you honestly have taken this place if you had seen the size of it? It’s smaller than my office. Anyway, this is just one example – I could come up with more.’

Ruth stormed over to her tiny wardrobe and pulled a summer frock off its hanger. She stepped into the dress, and slipped her feet into her favourite pumps. ‘I trust you’re quite done finding fault with your soon-to-be wife.’ She took her handbag off the doorhandle and opened the door.

Peter sighed. ‘Ruth, stay and let’s talk this through. If you’d calm down, you would see –’

‘Stop.’ Ruth held up her palm. ‘I can’t bear to hear any more.’

‘What about the German U-boats? Have you even thought of them? They’re swarming all over the Atlantic right now.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘They’ll attack anything.’

Ruth stared at her fiancé: at his newly cropped reddish-brown hair; his shockingly pale blue eyes; the moustache above his soft, familiar lips; his broad shoulders beneath the impeccably ironed white shirt. She loved every inch of this man and had done from the moment she’d laid eyes on him two years earlier. But sometimes she found it difficult to like him. Walking up to Peter, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she picked up the paper and slipped it into her handbag. ‘I’m going to see Florrie,’ she said, turning back to the door.

‘Ruth, please, this isn’t the time to go running off to your friend.’

‘It’s exactly the time,’ she said, without turning around, ‘to visit a friend who understands what you don’t.’

She opened the door, stepped out, and shut it firmly behind her.

On the pavement outside, Ruth paused. The afternoon sun was attempting to melt the streets of London, and her skin prickled in the heat. She knew the right thing would be to go back upstairs. Peter was worried about her safety and he was right; she should be focusing her efforts here at home rather than sailing to the other side of the world. But there had to be a reason she’d spied the article on the exact same day she received a rare letter from her father. He’d been full of his usual enthusiasm for life in New Zealand, and surely his comment that ‘you’d be safer out here’ meant he wished she would visit him again. She had enjoyed her trip to New Zealand – had it really been three years ago? – and she’d been desperate for him to invite her back. Of course, her mother would have a conniption if he did. While Ruth could never condone her father’s decision to abandon his wife and children – the scandal had followed her like a ghost since he’d disappeared the day after her twelfth birthday – she could understand how he’d been driven to it. The urge he’d had to change the course of his life. To escape.

‘Afternoon, Ruth,’ Mr Hamble yelled from his shop doorway. He wore a bloodied apron, and his black hair stuck to his forehead. The smell wafting from the open door of his shop was enough to turn Ruth’s stomach. Warm air did not mix well with animal blood. ‘Another rough night, eh?’

Ruth smiled. ‘How are Fred and Annie?’

‘Fine, fine. Bored, actually. I don’t know what to do with ’em now school’s finished. My brother’s offered to take ’em, but I’m not packing ’em off to the countryside just yet. No point in running scared before you need to, eh? You must be pleased, though, to have a break?’

Another image of Brenda rushed into Ruth’s head. This time the little girl was sitting in her usual seat in the front row of the classroom, her hair in ribbons, her face turned to Ruth as she listened. Brenda had been a quiet student. She had also been intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive and inquisitive.

A fist closed around Ruth’s heart and she forced herself to smile. ‘To tell the truth, I miss teaching already.’

Mr Hamble laughed and his large belly jiggled. ‘I thought you’d be enjoying some quality time with Peter before he leaves.’ He gave her a knowing wink.

Feeling a change of subject was in order, Ruth wiped her forehead and said, ‘Looks like it’s going to be another scorcher.’

‘Indeed, indeed. Might as well shut up shop. The queue was round the corner this morning; I got nothin’ left now but a couple of pig’s heads.’

Ruth thought of her rations book stashed in the top drawer of the kitchen dresser. She should have brought it with her. Peter had been most put out having to eat his toast and marmalade without butter, while Ruth had barely noticed the difference. Sometimes she wondered if she wasn’t quite British enough.

‘Well, better get on.’ Ruth straightened her shoulders, hoping she looked more grown-up and in control than she felt. ‘Good day, Mr Hamble.’

She hurried past the greengrocer and a long row of matching white Georgian houses. She would walk through the park, she decided. The underground was bound to be stifling, and the buses were dreadfully unreliable these days.

Crossing the road, Ruth entered Regent’s Park. She followed a trio of ducks as they waddled along the path in front of her, slowing her pace to enjoy the simple distraction they provided. Veering off the path, the ducks quacked towards the pond. An abandoned model boat bobbed about in the murky water. Normally the park would be teeming with excited children on a day like today, but Ruth doubted she would bump into a single child now that so many had been evacuated to safer areas. London had never felt so empty.

Passing through the rose garden, Ruth found it hard to believe her country was at war. On this perfect summer’s day, as she inhaled the warm, sweetly perfumed air, young men were fighting, shooting at one another, dying. And the enemy drew nearer.

Ruth recalled crossing the Channel a year earlier with her mother on their annual trip to Paris. It had been one of their more successful trips away together. Ruth had been in a relaxed, forgiving mood, having recently become engaged, and her mother had been in a rare state of calm; she’d barely mentioned Ruth’s father and the family he’d left in disgrace and ruin. Paris had been beautiful as always – London’s more fashionable twin.

But now Paris had fallen into enemy hands. England was so close, she thought with a shiver; so vulnerable.

Ruth had pressed the buzzer several times and was on the verge of giving up when Florrie’s blonde head suddenly appeared at the window above. ‘What time do you call this?’ she demanded.

‘Three o’clock,’ Ruth shouted back. ‘You can’t honestly be in bed.’

‘I was up half the night and I’ve had a frightfully busy morning. Besides, what else is there to do in this heat? Come up.’

The door buzzed, and Ruth entered the cool foyer. The parquet floor smelt of polish, and the banister of the wide sweeping staircase gleamed. ‘Your mother coming over then?’ Ruth asked, entering Florrie’s apartment on the first floor.

Florrie walked out of her kitchen holding a glass of water, wearing nothing but a petticoat and a brassiere. ‘She’s coming for tea tomorrow – I’ve been cleaning since I got back from the shelter early this morning.’ Florrie sighed dramati. . .