The Girls From Mersey View

by Lyn Andrews

Genres: Sagas; World War II; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In her nostalgic and heart-warming new saga, Sunday Times bestselling author Lyn Andrews evokes the ups and downs of life in the back streets of 1930s Liverpool

Liverpool, 1935. Monica Savage is delighted when new neighbours move in next door, and she and Joan Copperfield quickly become firm friends. While Monica's father has a good job as a guard on the railway, Joan's family are harder up, with her sailor dad Billy mostly off at sea, and restless when he's home - Mersey View is no substitute for the exotic places he sails to. Though money's tight, the Copperfield women are spirited and independent, and it's her friendship with the more confident Joan that gives Monica the courage to challenge her parents and pursue her dream of becoming a hairdresser. Joan is lucky enough to get a job at Crawford's biscuit factory, where she's even allowed to buy broken biscuits cheaply as a perk.

But there are dark secrets lurking. When an abandoned child arrives unexpectedly on the Copperfields' doorstep, her arrival will change everything. As war clouds gather, can the girls make their back street dreams reality, or will the families of Mersey View be torn apart?

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: December 10, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One



Liverpool,1935

‘Why is it called “Mersey View” when you can’t even see the river from here?’

The question was uttered in a slightly argumentative tone that fifteen-year-old Monica Savage wasn’t sure she liked very much. The girl facing her was part of the new family that had moved into the street yesterday, and she looked to be about the same age as herself. She was taller and thinner, though, and had very dark brown – almost black – hair swept back from her forehead, her dark eyes animated and fringed with thick sooty lashes. She wasn’t what you would call pretty, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was, Monica had to admit, what Mam would term “striking”. Why she was taking this belligerent attitude she didn’t know.

Monica shrugged in response to the girl’s question. ‘I don’t know why they called it that. I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never heard anyone else ask that before. I suppose the Council or whoever is in charge of these things thought it sounded more . . . interesting than just such-and-such a street. Anyway, you actually can see the river if you go to the end and peer around the corner of the last house.’ Monica shrugged again. ‘And why would you want to be bothered looking at the river at all? It’s not called the “Mucky Mersey” for nothing – in summer it stinks to high heaven!’

The other girl considered this. ‘Oh, I just thought me mam might have moved us all here so she could actually see the river. You see, me da goes away to sea. Nothing fancy, like; not on the big liners. It’s just a cargo ship and he’s in the engine room.’ Her tone had softened slightly as she spoke of her father and then she grinned, transforming her features entirely. ‘What’s your name?’

Monica grinned back; maybe she wasn’t too bad after all. ‘Monica Savage, what’s yours?’

‘Joan. Joan Copperfield. We moved into number ten yesterday. Mam, me and our Charlie. He’s me brother, he’s twelve and a holy terror, so me mam is always saying. He needs me da to keep him in order but, well, Da’s hardly ever here so he’s not much use in that department.’

Monica nodded her understanding. In this city half the male population had chosen ‘going away to sea’ as a job if not a career. She leaned back against the end wall of the house nearest to them, which had been warmed by the rays of the setting sun now cascading over the dark slates of the rooftops, and stared up the street, her arms folded. Maybe Mrs Copperfield had expected to be able to see her husband’s ship as it came upriver to the docks but if so she would be disappointed. As the girl said, you couldn’t even see the Mersey.

Joan followed Monica’s example, crossing her arms over her chest and looking up the street. This wasn’t bad, she mused to herself. Much like the one they’d left – but then nearly all the streets in the working-class areas of Liverpool looked pretty much the same. Two- and three-storeyed narrow terraced houses with yards at the back which housed the privies and the ashcans. Some were in better condition than others but all were old and blackened by the soot that poured from countless chimneys both domestic and industrial. They had no gardens, of course, and in this part of Everton the streets were very steep, the houses looking as if they were clinging desperately to the side of St George’s Hill. In winter these streets were treacherous to both man and beast, or so she’d heard; that’s why they all had railings for people to hang on to. There was a small shop on the corner where Mersey View joined Northumberland Terrace and on the opposite corner was The George and Dragon, the obligatory public house.

Surreptitiously Joan had quickly taken in her new acquaintance’s appearance. About the same age, a bit on the plump side and not as tall as herself, but with light brown hair which seemed to wave naturally, and very blue eyes. Her green-and-white cotton dress and matching green hand-knitted cardigan were definitely better than the faded print dress she wore herself. ‘So, you’ll have to tell me who lives where in the street and who has the shop. That’s really important – me mam will want to know that, so she can see about getting a bit of credit, like. Do they let you put things on the slate?’

Monica nodded. ‘Once Ethel knows you, and if she thinks you’re reliable. Come on, we’ll walk down there and I’ll introduce you to her. Mrs Ethel Newbridge is her proper name, and Mo Clancy has the pub – not that me da goes in there much, and we’d be skinned alive if we set foot over the doorstep. Mo’s name is Maurice Clancy really but everyone calls him “Mo”.’

They fell into step as they walked slowly up the narrow, steep cobbled street with Monica pointing to the various houses. ‘We live there, number fifteen. Me da works on the railways. He’s a guard and he’s based at Lime Street. There’s Mam and me, of course, and our Eileen, me sister. She’s the same age as your Charlie and she’s a real pain in the neck. We just don’t get on, never have done. When we were younger, Mam made me take her everywhere with me and she was always whining and lagging behind. I hated it!’

Joan took in the pristine lace curtains of number fifteen, the scrubbed and ‘donkey stoned’ step, the polished brass door knocker, and a small frown creased her brow. The Savages appeared to have more money than most people in the street, judging by the outside of the house. But with Mr Savage a guard on the railways, it was only to be expected. That was a very secure and much-sought-after job; a job for life, and with a pension too at the end of it. ‘That place looks a bit run-down. Who lives there?’ she asked, pointing to a very dilapidated-looking house a few doors further on.

Monica cast her eyes skywards. ‘All sorts; at least that’s what Mam calls them. Every room’s rented out – and you never know from one month to the next who is living there, what with all the comings and goings and moonlight flits and that.’ She laughed. ‘It drives Mam mad; she does like to know what’s going on in the street. She thinks it’s her “duty”, but privately me da says she’s just nosey!’

‘Then she’s just the opposite of my mam; it’s like trying to get blood out of a stone getting any gossip out of her. Now me Aunty Lil, she’s a different kettle of fish. She’s Mam’s sister but they’re not a bit alike. I suppose Aunty Lil’s more . . . sort of “outgoing”, probably because she’s always worked in the theatre.’

Monica was surprised; she’d never known anyone who had such an exotic occupation. ‘Really? Is she an actress or something?’ It would be very exciting to know someone related to a real-life actress!

Joan grinned but shook her head. ‘No, she works in the wardrobe department at the Empire. But she’s quite glamorous, which me mam definitely is not. You’ll meet her, she comes round sometimes.’

This was really interesting, Monica thought; she’d look forward to encountering this Aunty Lil.

‘So, who lives next door to us, then? We’ve not heard a sound since we moved in, although maybe that’s because of all the noise our Charlie was making last night, supposedly helping Mam and me to unpack and get the beds up.’

‘That’s Mr Garswood – and you probably wouldn’t have heard a sound anyway. He’s very quiet, he keeps himself to himself. He does go out to work, but we don’t know what he does exactly – another mystery for Mam.’

‘Hasn’t he got any family? Does he live in that house all by himself?’ Joan queried. It seemed to her it was quite big just for one person. In fact, it was the biggest house in the street.

‘Mam said when she was young his mother was alive, but then she died after I was born and there’s been no one since. He doesn’t seem to have any family or even relatives or friends.’

Joan frowned. ‘Bit odd that.’

‘I don’t suppose many folk think about it; we don’t. Oh, he’s pleasant enough if you see him on the street. Always says “Good evening” or some such,’ Monica replied and then decided to change the subject. Her new friend would find out all about the rest of the neighbours in time. ‘When we’ve been to the shop, why don’t you come home with me and I can introduce you to Mam. And perhaps if there is anything we can do to help . . . ? After all, we’re going to be neighbours and maybe . . . friends?’ Monica suggested tentatively.

Joan smiled. ‘Oh, definitely friends. I do hope Mam decides to stay here. She’s a great one for upping sticks and moving – I don’t know why half the time – but it gets to be a nuisance. I just seem to make friends, then we’re off again.’

‘I hope you stay too,’ Monica replied, for she’d taken to Joan Copperfield. But, she wondered, did they have much in common? Well, no doubt she’d soon find out.

Ethel Newbridge, a small wiry woman with sharp grey eyes that missed nothing, and a shrewd business head on her thin shoulders, had been encouraging after Monica’s introduction. Joan felt relieved she’d be able to inform her mother that their financial situation – always precarious owing to her da’s job – would be eased by the fact that credit would more than likely be extended. The shop had been just like all the other corner shops she’d experienced. Small, dark, crammed to the rafters with every commodity you could think of, the floor space an obstacle course of sacks containing coal and potatoes, small bundles of wood known as ‘chips’, as well as brooms and shovels. It was obviously a meeting place for the local housewives and she was glad her new friend Monica had been on hand with the introduction, which always helped in a new area. She’d learned that much over the years.

She felt a little uneasy when Monica ushered her into the kitchen of number fifteen, which she quickly ascertained was far better furnished and more comfortable than the one in her home. The range gleamed from regular applications of black lead and elbow grease; on the mantel above were two black-and-white Staffordshire dogs, a fine clock and a brass spill holder. There were clean rag rugs on the floor, the table boasted a blue-and-white checked-cotton cloth – spotlessly clean – and the curtains and the cushions on the chairs all matched. Not like the hotchpotch of soft furnishings and bric-a-brac that graced their kitchen. There was an appetising smell of something cooking in the oven in the range, which made Joan realise that she hadn’t had anything to eat since her breakfast – it was now almost six o’clock.

‘So, you’re the new neighbours,’ Nelly Savage remarked, wiping her hands on her apron as Monica introduced Joan. ‘How is your mam managing, girl? Is there anything I can help her with, like? It must be a bit of a nightmare moving house, although I’ve never done it meself. I’ve always lived here; me mam – God rest her – had this house before me and Arthur.’

Joan managed a smile. ‘Ta very much, Mrs Savage, but me mam’s moved house that many times I don’t think it’s much of a bother to her now.’

Nelly frowned and studied the girl. She seemed likeable enough and was clean, tidy and polite, but why would anyone keep on moving house with all the upheaval and stress and expense of it? ‘Why on earth does she do that, Joan?’

‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth. I’ve asked her and all she says is “itchy feet”. Maybe it’s got something to do with me da being away at sea so much.’

‘Has he been away long this time?’ Monica asked, wanting to divert her mother from the interrogation as to why the Copperfields moved so often.

‘A couple of months – that’s usual. He’s due home in about four weeks, according to Mam.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit, Joan?’ Nelly offered, thinking she might get more information out of the girl about the family. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had much, what with the upheaval of it all.’ She suspected their moving so frequently was down to their financial situation. It usually was the case.

‘Oh, yes, please, Mrs Savage.’

Monica smiled appreciatively at her mother and began to take down the cups from the dresser. She was glad Mam seemed to like her new friend, though she was fully aware Mam wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d found out all there was to know about the Copperfields.

Once Joan had gratefully drunk her tea and eaten the shortbread biscuits that had been offered – a real luxury – she settled down to find out more about her new friend. ‘Have you left school yet, Monica?’

‘No, I leave at the end of next term. Mam insisted I stay on so I’ll have the chance of a better job,’ Monica replied, casting a rebellious glance in her mother’s direction.

‘There’s no use pulling a face like that, miss! It’s for your own good. With a bit of luck you’ll get something in an office,’ Nelly retorted sharply as she gathered up the dishes.

Joan raised her eyebrows. ‘I left at the end of last term, but all I could get were just temporary jobs, mainly in shops, and the pay was terrible. Sometimes I think I’ll go into service, at least that’s steady.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that, luv. You’d be just a skivvy – and the pay and hours are far worse than in any shop, so I’ve heard,’ Nelly advised.

‘Then I suppose it will have to be a factory,’ Joan replied, downheartedly.

Before the subject could be discussed further there was a loud knocking on the back door and Nelly, taking off her apron, went to see who it was. She came back with a woman in tow who was obviously Joan’s mother, judging from the way Joan hastily rose from the armchair.

Olive Copperfield glared at her daughter. ‘So this is where you’ve got to. I’ve been up and down the street looking for you, Joan. Charlie and me have been trying to get the dresser sorted out but it’s well and truly wedged in the kitchen doorway and we can’t shift it!’

Nelly felt sorry for the woman; it was no picnic trying to move house on your own without a man to help. Obviously Olive Copperfield was a capable woman, but some things were just beyond her abilities.

‘Just you sit down there, luv, and get your breath and have a cup of tea. You must be worn out. Don’t try to shift that thing by yourself; you’ll do yourself a serious injury. When Arthur gets home I’ll send him in – he’s on a regular shift today – and Monica, you can go down and ask Ethel if her Harry will give a hand too. Heaving furniture isn’t women’s work, Olive.’

Gratefully, Olive sat down in the chair Joan had vacated and sighed heavily. She’d introduced herself when Nelly had opened the back door to her, and she was thankful for the help offered.

As Nelly poured the tea she studied her new neighbour. She was tall and slim, and Joan resembled her; both mother and daughter were striking-looking with their dark, almost black, hair and eyes, and that quite remarkably fine bone structure. And Olive Copperfield didn’t have a single grey hair despite, Nelly was sure, being of a similar age to herself – and her own once light brown hair was now liberally sprinkled with grey. Over the years she’d put on weight too. ‘Joan says your husband’s at sea,’ she remarked as she passed the tea over.

Olive nodded and took the cup and saucer from her with thanks, noting that the china matched. ‘He is. Oh, nothing very grand, he’s a stoker on a rust bucket called the MV Adventurer. If you ask me, that ship is ready for its last “adventure” – to the breaker’s yard!’

‘Has he always gone to sea? ‘Nelly persevered.

‘Aye, from when he was eighteen. He seems to like the life – God knows why!’

‘It’s not much fun for you, luv.’

Olive looked thoughtful. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Nelly. You get used to it after a while. You get used to managing and to not having him under your feet all day and night.’

‘There’s something to be said for that, Olive. At least Arthur has his pigeons to keep him occupied in what spare time he has, although I won’t go near them. Smelly, dirty things! I hate that corner of the yard where he keeps them!’ Nelly shuddered.

Monica cast Joan an amused glance and stifled a giggle. Her mam’s views on her da’s pigeons were known the entire length of the street – she sometimes thought he made them an excuse to get out of the house for far, far longer than was necessary. He even had a battered old chair in the small loft he’d constructed for the birds. She decided to change the subject before her mam really got going on the subject of the pigeons. ‘Joan was telling me that your sister works at the Empire Theatre, Mrs Copperfield.’

Nelly was so surprised she nearly dropped the tea caddy she was holding. ‘She’s not on the stage, is she?’ she asked in a rather restrained tone. She had always thought there was something not quite ‘proper’ about people who worked in the theatre or the music halls. ‘Racy’ and ‘fast’ and usually unreliable was how her old mam had always described them.

‘Lord, no! She’s in the wardrobe department; in fact she’s Wardrobe Mistress,’ Olive replied, casting a reproving glance at her daughter. ‘And she’s not a bit like me either. I tend to keep my business . . . private, like. Our Lily’s got a mouth like a parish oven! All gush, gab and affectations, she is. That’s our Lily!’

Nelly nodded as she spooned fresh tea into the pot. ‘It wouldn’t do for us all to be the same.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Now, Monica, while Olive and I have a quiet cup of tea, you go and find your sister and bring her home. She was going to play with Lizzie McBride from York Terrace. They’ll have been out in the street so she’s bound to need a good wash before her tea. And call into Ethel on the way.’

‘Joan, you go with her so you can see a bit more of the neighbourhood – and if you see Charlie, tell him I’ll be in in a few minutes,’ Olive instructed her daughter.

Monica began to protest but her mother quickly silenced her with a look. There were a lot more questions she wanted to ask Olive Copperfield, for she’d never met anyone quite like her before and she’d certainly never known anyone with a relative who worked in the theatre. She wanted to find out all she could.

Chapter Two



The two girls made their way slowly down the street towards the corner shop, Monica bemoaning the fact that she always had to go and bring her sister home when Eileen was more than old enough to get home on her own.

Having relayed Nelly’s request to Ethel, who had readily agreed to send her husband along when he got home from his work, they had reached the corner of York Terrace when Joan suddenly let out a startled cry.

‘What’s the matter?’ Monica asked.

‘Would you just look at the state of him?’ Joan was glaring and pointing at a small boy coming towards them. Decidedly grimy and scruffy-looking, he was hanging firmly on to an equally scruffy-looking dog by a length of rope tied around its neck. ‘Why aren’t you at home? And what are you doing with that . . . that animal?’ she demanded.

The lad peered up at her through a thick fringe of unruly dark hair. ‘I got fed up waiting for Mam, and he’s mine. I found him wanderin’ around all on his own and ’e likes me. I’ve called him Rags.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t bother giving it a name; you won’t have it that long! Hasn’t Mam got enough to put up with, Charlie Copperfield, without you bringing flea-bitten mutts into the house? You know what her feelings are about dogs.’

The lad scowled at her. He had no intention of giving up his new pet without a fight. He’d always wanted a dog. And last time he was home, his da had said he would see about getting him one after he’d complained vociferously about all the times they’d moved house and the fact that he never had his mates for long. A dog could move with them and be his permanent ‘mate’.

‘Where is Mam?’ he asked, to divert Joan’s attention away from Rags.

‘She’s having a cup of tea with Mrs Savage, Monica’s Mam.’

‘And you’re to leave the dresser alone. My da and Mr Newbridge from the shop will come and shift it later,’ Monica supplied. She bent down and scratched the dog’s ears; she was fond of animals, but her mam’s views on animals were no doubt the same as those of Charlie’s mother. ‘If I were you, I’d try and tidy him up a bit before your mam sees him.’

‘No amount of “tidying up” will make that thing look more presentable. Oh, get home with you, Charlie, but leave the animal in the yard! Don’t take it in, God knows what it’s got crawling in its fur!’ Joan instructed, aware of the battle of wills that would surely follow.

Monica’s mood wasn’t improved when, further down York Terrace, she finally set eyes on her younger sister, sitting with her friend Lizzie McBride on the edge of the kerb. They were playing ‘grid fishing’, a pastime which involved suspending a magnetised pin on a piece of string, between the metal slats of the grid in the gutter – hopefully to retrieve any coins or other useful bits and pieces that had fallen into it. They had been quite successful, although they had also become quite grubby in the process.

‘Oh, would you look at the state of the pair of you! Mam will kill you, Eileen Savage, for playing in the gutter!’ Monica exclaimed. ‘You’re filthy and you can catch all kinds of horrible diseases poking down grids! You’re to get home and get washed before tea, and before Mam sees you, if you know what’s good for you!’

‘Who’s she?’ the younger girl demanded, ignoring her sister’s annoyance.

‘I’m Joan Copperfield from number ten, and you’re as bad as our Charlie. Don’t either of you ever even think about what a mess you look? And that it doesn’t look well for your mam and all the efforts she makes to turn you out clean and tidy?’

Eileen scowled; this one was as bad as Monica, and she had no idea who Charlie was, but she did know there was always someone intent on spoiling what bit of fun you might have after school.

‘Oh, they make a pair all right,’ Monica added darkly before turning away, leaving her sister to follow reluctantly at a distance.

It was after eight o’clock before Arthur Savage and Harry Newbridge, accompanied by Nelly and Monica, finally went to the Copperfields’ house, Nelly having said it would be best to leave Olive to get the meal over and done with first. Monica wondered how the appearance of Charlie’s new friend Rags had gone down. Seeing the dog tied up, lying contentedly on a piece of old matting and with a battered tin bowl of water beside it, she guessed Joan’s Mam hadn’t hit the roof after all.

‘Well, you’re a fine guard dog!’ she laughed as the animal watched them – four strangers – walk up to the back door without uttering a sound.

It was Joan who let them in – she’d been washing the dishes in the scullery.

‘Go on through, Mam will be glad to see you, we’ve had a right job trying to squeeze around that dresser,’ she informed them.

‘I see your Charlie got his way about the dog,’ Monica whispered as the adults went into the kitchen.

Joan raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Sometimes he can twist Mam around his little finger. If you ask me, Mam’s just so worn out with everything, she just gave in. He’s promised to take it for walks and clean up after it and everything – although how long that will last, I don’t know.’

Monica automatically took the tea towel from its hook on the wall and started to dry the dishes, one of her regular chores at home.

‘Thanks,’ Joan muttered, before she sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better make a start soon to see what jobs are available. Mam could do with the money; Da’s allotment isn’t much.’

Monica was curious. ‘Is that how he’s paid? I thought they weren’t paid off until the end of each trip?’

‘They’re not, but they can leave what’s called an “allotment” for the family to live on while they are away. It’s deducted from their wages, of course, but God knows what we’d do without it. Mam would have to get a job, I suppose, as well as run the house and look after us, but she wouldn’t be happy about it. It would look as if Da couldn’t keep us, and his pride and his standing with his mates would be ruined. She wouldn’t do that to him, no matter how much she needed the money – and she’s got her pride too.’

Monica nodded her understanding. Although many women, forced by circumstances, did work, she thought the way Mr Copperfield was paid wasn’t very satisfactory at all. Her da got his wage packet regularly, every Friday evening, and her mam had her housekeeping money on Saturday mornings, so everyone knew exactly what budget they had to work to. ‘I’ll help you, if you like,’ she said. ‘Da always brings home a copy of the Echo, so we’ll look in the jobs pages.’

‘Thanks, that’s great. There might be something I can do that isn’t too awful and pays a bit more than a pittance.’

The girls continued chatting while they dried up and tidied the pots away. Then, while the girls were poring over the pages of the newspaper, fetched from number fifteen, Olive made a pot of tea for her neighbours, as a small ‘thank you’. The dresser had proved to be obstinate and it had taken all Arthur’s and Harry’s strength, aided by Charlie, to shift it.

‘That’s a sturdy piece of furniture all right, Olive,’ Nelly remarked, accepting her steaming cup as they all sat round the kitchen table.

‘It belonged to a great-aunt so I suppose you could class it as “antique”. It’s the only decent thing I’ve got, not that I’m complaining. There’s a lot more worse off than me in this city.’

‘That’s very true, luv,’ Nelly agreed, sipping her tea.

‘Still, it must be a great comfort for you to have a good job, Arthur – and you too, Harry,’ Olive added. She’d been informed that Ethel’s husband worked as a foreman in a local factory, another steady job. She could understand why Ethel continued to live in this area because of the shop, but not Nelly. Surely with a job like Arthur’s – a guard on the railways, no less – they could afford to live in a much nicer area? Tentatively she voiced her thoughts.

Nelly looked surprised. ‘Why on earth would I want to move from here, Olive? I’ve lived in Everton most of my life, it’s not a bad area, the people are great on the whole – there’s always a few wrong ’uns, of course – the kids were born here and we’ve got everything we need at hand.’

Olive smiled at her. ‘Oh, it was just a thought, Nelly. Don’t mind me.’

Joan looked up from the newspaper, having been listening to the conversation with one ear. ‘Do you think we’ll stay here, Mam?’

Nelly thought Olive looked a little furtive at this question; she hadn’t been able to get much information about the woman, or her background, so far.

‘We might, we’ll have to see how . . . things go,’ was Olive’s non-committal reply.

‘How will your husband know where to find you all when he gets home?’ Nelly persevered; it was something that had been puzzling her.

‘Oh, I’ll just go down to the shipping office next week, they’ll tell him.’

‘He doesn’t write, then?’ Nelly asked, wondering if Billy Copperfield could in fact write; many of these seafarers couldn’t.

‘Not very often,’ Olive answered a little sharply, rising to collect the cups.

‘For heaven’s sake, Nell, the man’s stuck down in the engine room for most of the trip. He probably doesn’t see much daylight, let alone find the time to be writing letters home by the minutes,’ Arthur put in, aware of his wife’s overly curious nature and noting that Olive Copperfield was looking a bit put out. He liked what he’d seen of her; she seemed a very handsome and capable woman indeed.

‘I suppose you’re right, Arthur. Well, we’d better be getting home. Monica, are you staying?’

‘Just for a bit longer, Mam. We’re looking to see if there’s a job in here for Joan.’

Olive smiled at the two girls. ‘I hope there is, it’s about time she made her way in. . .