The Munition Girls Series

by Rosie Archer

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Even in the darkest of times, good friends will see you through. Three heartwarming sagas for fans of Daisy Styles, Nancy Revell and Ellie Dean. THE MUNITIONS GIRLS 19-year-old Pixie isn't going to let a little war get in the way of a good time. Her job at the local armaments factory is gruelling and dangerous, but she and the other girls there try and make the most of their time off. Pixie meets American sailor Cal and they fall in love. But Cal has to rejoin his ship, and little does Pixie know just how much her life is about to change... THE CANARY GIRLS Rita Brown is glad to be back at work at the munitions factory after an explosion put her in hospital. She's caught the eye of local bad boy Blackie Bristow, who is sweeping her round the country in a whirl of shady glamour. Her friends from the factory help take her mind off Blackie's darker side. Then she discovers someone at work is leaking secrets to the Germans. With D-Day on the horizon, Rita must work out who's responsible - and fast. THE FACTORY GIRLS Autumn, 1944. Doodlebugs batter the south coast, but factory overseer Em has more than bombs on her plate. Her daughter Lizzie is unexpectedly pregnant, and a strange woman has turned up on her doorstep claiming to be Em's long-lost sister. Em is overjoyed, but is the woman too good to be true? Once again the factory girls must rally round one of heir own.

Release date: November 23, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 810

Sample

Chapter Eight

Bob slipped another log into the grate and sat back with the Evening News. Although it was May, it had been a wet, chilly day.

He sighed, reading about the latest Gosport bombings. A shell had landed on an air-raid shelter on Whitworth Road. In the ensuing panic to escape, fifty-four people were killed, including a young woman carrying her child; she’d slipped on the steps and been trodden underfoot, crushed.

Would this war never end? He brushed his fingers through his wayward hair. If you couldn’t be safe in an air-raid shelter, where could you escape from Hitler’s bombs?

He looked at the clock: it was just after nine. He would have been abed by now if it hadn’t been for Pixie calling around. Getting up before four in the morning was one of the hazards of being a market trader. But a late night now and then he could cope with. It made his love-life a bit precarious, though. The women down the market liked him, but his romances didn’t last long when he had either to take them home early or get up in the small hours, leaving them to sleep on.

He gazed around his kitchen, where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t out earning money. It wasn’t posh but it was home. His eyes fell on his camera, which Pixie had asked to borrow. He’d shown her how to take photographs with it. He supposed she wanted some snaps of her mates at the depot.

He hoped Pixie was out enjoying herself with her friend Rita. He’d made sure she wouldn’t fail to see the pound note.

Poor kid, he thought. Bob’s parents had moved into the two-up and two-down ten years ago. She’d been just a kid then, with a lot of growing up to do, and he’d been a gawky lad with glasses and his head forever in a book. He was five years older than Pixie and it had seemed a lot when he was young. Now the gap between him and her was nothing.

She wasn’t a beauty but she had that elusive ‘something’ that made men turn for a second look. She was slim and blonde with the capacity to love and go on loving the people she cared about, no matter how disloyal they were to her. Look how she was with her wayward mother. The woman had left her daughter in Shit Street and still Pixie wouldn’t have a word said against her.

He knew she’d dated a few men but they never lasted long. He wondered if her mother’s infidelities caused her not to take relationships seriously. He preferred to think Pixie hadn’t met the right man, the one who would love her as he did. If only he had the courage to tell her how he felt about her. But what if she dismissed him? He wouldn’t be able to bear that. Perhaps it was better to be her friend, the one person she could always rely on.

He drank some Brickwoods Pale Ale from the bottle and went on reading the newspaper. Women had been advised by the government to take part-time jobs to help in the war effort.

Well, he was doing his bit, wasn’t he? He was waiting for Marlene to come round so he could tell her he’d decided to take her on.

‘That’s good,’ he said aloud, continuing with the newspaper and lifting the drink once more to his lips. Church bells could be rung again now the threat of invasion was over. ‘Good old Churchill,’ he murmured. ‘Be nice to hear the bells again.’

A loud knock on the front door made him jump. He folded the newspaper, got up and made his way down the passage. The banging sounded again.

‘Hold your horses,’ he said, to the pretty bronze-haired girl standing on his doorstep. ‘I ain’t got no servant to send running down the passage to let you in.’

The girl laughed and stepped over the threshold.

At that moment, Rita and Pixie walked arm in arm past his open door.

Rita giggled. ‘She’s eager to get into your house, Bob!’

Damn, he thought. He should have told Pixie he’d been thinking of asking Marlene to help out on the stall. He didn’t want her imagining he was carrying on with the girl.

‘Goodnight, Bob,’ sang out Rita.

‘Goodnight, girls,’ he replied. Before he closed the front door, he saw Pixie look back and smile.

‘Oh, it’s nice in here,’ said Marlene. ‘Can I sit down?’

‘Course you can. Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

She eyed the bottle on the table. ‘Wouldn’t mind one of them.’

Bob was taken aback. She didn’t look old enough to drink. But that wasn’t the only thing that was deceptive about the girl. Small and wiry, she was as strong as an ox. He’d seen her unloading metal bars from vans and fixing up the stalls at the market. He went into the scullery, opened another pale ale and took a clean glass from the wooden draining-board.

When he got back to the kitchen she’d made herself comfortable in the armchair. She accepted the bottle and glass. He noticed she did a perfect job of pouring the beer, without making it froth to the top. She’d probably worked in a pub, Bob thought. He knew she wasn’t afraid of hard work.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘I won’t beat around the bush,’ Bob said. ‘I want you to work on my stall, because I’m doing well and I need you to look after things while I get out and about buying up more stock.’ He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. ‘That’s about it. I’ve been watching you. You don’t seem to work for anyone in particular, but you work hard for anyone who’ll pay you. Am I right?’

She nodded and her auburn hair fell forward. In the electric light it was almost golden. He’d only ever seen her in dungarees and boots. She’d taken off her Jigger coat and was wearing a close-fitting serge dress with three box pleats at the centre. The padded shoulders and white Peter Pan collar made her look fragile. Inwardly he smiled. If it wasn’t for the fact that he sometimes sold women’s clothing and shoes, brought straight from the sweatshops in London’s Petticoat Lane, he wouldn’t know a thing about ration-book fashion and Utility designs.

She took a sip of beer. ‘I make pretty good money working for different stallholders . . .’

‘Yes, and I know that when there isn’t any work around you go home empty-handed.’

‘Swings and roundabouts,’ she said, taking another drink. ‘One day I want to be selling second-hand jewellery and answerable to no one, but buying gold costs big money.’ She crossed her ankles, her black suede shoes with the maximum two-and-a-half-inch heels, a wartime restriction, showing her slim legs to advantage.

Bob said, ‘You’re astute enough to get what you want. And sooner than you thought possible.’

She brightened at his words.

He glanced at the clock. If he was going to clinch the deal he’d have to work fast. It was dark outside now and raining. He couldn’t let her walk home on her own, especially not when the storm that had been threatening all day was darkening the sky by the minute.

Then he had to get back and grab some shuteye before getting up early for tomorrow’s work. He named an amount of money. And was quick enough to see her eyes widen with surprise.

But she was going to test him. ‘Is that what you reckon I’m worth?’

‘No, it’s what I’ll pay. I’ve watched you going from stallholder to stallholder begging for work. Some of the blokes treat you like something the cat dragged in. I’ve checked up and I know you’re honest. But why do you work on the markets? Why not a regular job, like in the armaments factory?’

Marlene took a gulp of the beer and set the glass on the floor. ‘I’ll be honest with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I got a baby. She’s six months old. Me mum takes care of Jeannie while I work, but if I had set hours I wouldn’t be able to take time off when I have to. And Jeannie needs me.’

He could see she was waiting for him to dismiss her. A baby out of wedlock was a terrible disgrace. Then she looked away, but it wasn’t shame he’d seen in her eyes: it was defiance.

Her revelation showed why sometimes she had to shrug off abuse. He’d heard her being told to ‘piss off’, and worse, when she’d asked for work, yet the following week she’d returned to the same stallholders. To him it proved her staying power. ‘I’m not worried about your personal life. I need loyalty and someone I can trust.’

A smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘You can have that. When d’you want me to start?’

Chapter Eighteen

Marlene tucked the candlewick cot cover around her child’s sturdy body.

The autumn winds rattled the window pane. These old houses were a bugger to keep warm, she thought. Jeannie lay on her back, arms stretched above her head, her chubby knees making a tent of the bedclothes. The few freckles across her nose were so adorable that Marlene bent down to kiss her. ‘You are so gorgeous I could eat you,’ she said softly, and was rewarded with a hiccup of a snore that made her smile.

The clock said five past seven; the alarm was set for half past three in the morning.

On the bedside cabinet lay a terrycloth napkin, a muslin square and a clean cotton nightdress. During the day, Jeannie knew what a potty was for but at nights she often wet the bed. When she woke at two, as she usually did, a quick change soon sent her off to sleep again and Marlene cherished the hour and a half of extra sleep before she had to get ready for work.

Stallholders had to arrive early at the markets. By seven in the morning, all the stalls were set up and vehicles removed from the marketplace to the parking area. The summer months had been lovely, the early mornings a delight, but it was fast growing colder and already she was wearing more clothing to keep warm. The winter, she knew, was horrendous. Ice from your breath formed on scarves and made your face sore, and your feet got so cold you couldn’t feel them.

A noise behind Marlene caused her to turn. Her mother had stepped into the bedroom, her arms full of newly ironed washing. Marlene could smell its freshness.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Marlene yawned – she was tired. ‘I could have done that.’ Where she would be without her mother’s help, she didn’t know. She took the pile of clothes and laid it on top of the chest of drawers to put away later.

‘You’ve been on your feet all day. It weren’t no bother.’ Her mother’s voice was low, so she wouldn’t wake the child.

Marlene and her mother were as alike as two peas in a pod, even down to the glorious wavy orange hair. Beth had been born in Cork, Ireland, and had told Marlene it was a family trait, the hair. Every day Marlene searched the fine hairs on Beth’s head, at her insistence, to see if it was changing colour or going grey. Both women were small and wiry, but Beth’s eyes were ringed with dark circles and lined at the corners.

Marlene knew that tomorrow Beth would take Jeannie with her when she cleaned for Mr Wilson. He lived in a bungalow, so there was no chance that Jeannie would toddle off to fall down the stairs. On Tuesdays she cleaned the offices of Hutfield’s Garage in Forton Road, and on Fridays she cleaned another bungalow down Parham Road for Mrs Jefferies. Mrs Jefferies wouldn’t throw anything away, so it seemed to Beth. She said to Marlene that when she’d finished cleaning it never looked any different.

‘Still, we’re in town tomorrow at the market, so if you get a minute you should bring Jeannie to the stall,’ said Marlene. ‘Bob likes to see her.’

‘You like working the markets.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Marlene smiled. Her mother waited while Marlene closed the cupboard door after taking out her clean clothes for the morning. They left the sleeping child and went downstairs for a cup of tea. Marlene was aware her mother was insinuating that Marlene liked Bob. She did.

Bob flirted with his customers; some he’d bedded. Women were always giving him the eye. He worked hard, expanding his business. He was a kind man and a good boss, but not at all interested in her as a woman. She often wondered what appealed to Bob about Pixie. She sighed. If Pixie wasn’t around, maybe it would be different.

‘I’ll make the tea, Mum,’ Marlene said. ‘Bob’s a mate and a stepping-stone to my future. One day I’m going to have my own stall, selling second-hand jewellery, mostly gold. The punters like a bit of glitter.’

Her mother smiled at her. ‘I know you will, love,’ she said. Marlene felt Beth’s arm snake across her shoulders. She knew she was lucky to have had her mother stick by her when she’d become pregnant. If only some of the customers were as forgiving.

A few of the older women were downright hostile to her. She had a baby and she wasn’t married. It was a stigma. Sometimes she’d seen women walk away from the stall sooner than be served by her. Bob had told her not to worry about the old biddies. But she did worry. She didn’t like to think of him losing money because he’d been kind enough to take her on.

Out in the scullery, Marlene lit the gas and set the kettle to boil. The blue and red of the flames were the only hint of colour in the room, with its blackout curtains tightly shut. She got down two willow-pattern cups and saucers and the matching teapot, then walked over to the doorway. Her mother had settled herself in the chair nearest the range and dozed off.

In the centre of the kitchen there was a table, with two chairs either side of it. A blue and white cabinet housed their food, and a cupboard built into the wall near the range held crockery, pots and pans. Beth was a house-proud woman who hated dirt. She cleaned for other people and liked the sparkling freshness to continue through to her own home.

Marlene listened carefully: there was no sound from upstairs. Jeannie was fast asleep. She would go to bed after she’d had her tea. Early rising meant early nights. Both women worked hard and Marlene knew she’d have to wake her mother soon or she’d quite possibly stay asleep in that chair until the early hours, then wake up with a stiff neck.

Marlene wouldn’t have coped if her mother hadn’t done everything in her power to help her keep her child.

Her mother had been overjoyed when she’d passed the hard exams needed to gain a place at the local grammar school. No one in their family had ever been to one before. Times had changed now. The government were talking about introducing a special exam, all over the country, called the eleven-plus. Children who passed it would go on to grammar school, while those who didn’t would attend other local schools. Marlene remembered how proud she’d been of her grey gabardine raincoat, her green gymslip and white blouse, the uniform that showed she was a grammar-school girl.

She’d loved school, loved learning, and was determined to make something of her life, especially since her father had been killed in Africa. His death had hit her hard. But she’d been unable to confide in her mother. Instead she’d moped at school. Peter Ford, in her year, was a top football player and had invited her along to watch a few matches. She had gone with him because she felt she could talk to him. His elder brother, his hero, had died at sea. They took to meeting outside school, walking along the beach at Gilkicker, until the barbed wire was set up and the area filled with mines as a deterrent to any Germans trying to land on the beaches.

Almost as though Beth had tuned into her thoughts, she opened her eyes and said, ‘Peter’s mother came around this morning. Brought a toy for Jeannie.’

‘Did she say how Peter’s doing?’

Her mother took the cup of tea from her, set it on the arm of the chair and stirred it. ‘He’s doing so well at university, now he’s got over not being allowed to join the air force because of his hearing.’

Suddenly Marlene felt like crying. If she’d gone on to higher education and university, like she’d hoped, she’d be doing well, too. Then she thought of Jeannie asleep in her cot upstairs and knew that keeping her little girl had been the best decision she’d ever made.

Somehow the two families had managed to stay friends. And every so often Peter wrote asking about Jeannie. He was studying law, so he couldn’t contribute to Jeannie’s upbringing at the moment. His parents, however, sent a postal order to Marlene every month. It wasn’t a great deal of money, because they weren’t a rich family, but it certainly helped.

‘You should have gone back to school after . . .’

‘We’ve been through this before. I couldn’t concentrate on books and exams while worrying about how you were going to look after my baby and feed us every week, could I?’

‘We’d have managed.’ Beth sipped her tea.

Marlene sighed, remembering the past. She and Peter had gone for a walk to Stanley Park. Peter was upset because his history marks were down. His thin face was drawn as he told her that Mr Green had accused him of spending too much time listening to the wireless and reading instead of studying. She’d sat on the grass with Peter, holding him while he’d let his anger out. He didn’t like to be at any other place in the class but top.

He’d kissed her. It had been her first proper kiss. She’d liked it and kissed him back. And in that secluded glade, one thing had led to another.

Marlene was ashamed that she’d let herself get carried away. But she knew she’d trodden one step further on the road to womanhood.

She missed a period, then another. She was appalled. One single act, her first, of sexual contact was about to change her entire life. Finally she plucked up courage to tell her mother. Beth was calm, loving and supportive, but broken-hearted.

His parents had accused her of leading their son on. There was no question of them getting married: they were both fifteen and Peter’s studies were too important. Marlene was told she could have the child adopted. But immediately she laid eyes on her daughter, after a long, difficult labour, she knew she would give up her life sooner than be parted from her baby.

‘It’s just such a shame that a clever girl like you is missing out on all the learning you could have caught up with.’

Marlene sighed. Beth liked to remind her every so often of how well Peter was doing and how hard she and Marlene had to work. ‘I can use my brain in other ways. I’m going to earn big money. We won’t always be scraping by. You, me and Jeannie are going to want for nothing. Just you wait and see.’

 

‘I got a backache, Mum.’

Em looked at Doris. ‘I gave you an aspirin before we came out. Has it not worked, love?’

Doris shook her head. She stood up straight and her huge belly stuck out like the windblown sail of a galleon.

Pixie called, ‘Doris, quick, sweep this powder up I just spilled on the bench. Don’t want no accidents, do we, love?’ Doris waddled over to Pixie and collected every grain with her dustpan and brush, then took it to the water barrel where it dissolved and couldn’t do any harm.

‘Can’t take risks, can we?’ said Em, when Doris returned. ‘The slightest spark in that lot and we’d all go up in smoke.’ Em put her hand to Doris’s forehead. ‘You’re a bit hot.’

‘Not me head.’ She shook away her mother’s hand. ‘Me back hurts.’

‘Go and sit down for a while.’ Em watched her walk heavily away, dragging the broom in one hand, the dustpan and brush in the other. The hem of her dress was uneven where her belly dragged up the material at the front. ‘Poor little bugger,’ Em murmured.

She’d tried to explain to Doris about giving birth. Doris wouldn’t or couldn’t understand the basics. She’d be scared stiff when the baby decided to make its appearance. Every day Em cursed Harry Slaughter for what he was putting the whole family through.

Doris’s father wouldn’t look at her now. He’d told Em he was disgusted by what had happened. His imbecile of a daughter was born of Em’s side of the family and Doris would only produce another imbecile. ‘I want nothing to do with any of it,’ he’d said, turning his wheelchair so that his back faced them.

Em couldn’t understand how he could be so cold towards his own daughter.

Now she turned back to Mo, busily filling a shell, who said, ‘I reckon we ought not to be worried about a shell exploding in here cos we could all die in our beds from Hitler’s bombs, anyway.’

‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going, isn’t it?’ Em observed.

Laughter erupted from the girls at the nearby bench.

Sometimes it was very hard to keep a happy face, Em thought. Her husband, Jack, couldn’t walk. He could stagger about using the arms and backs of chairs, but was more at ease in his wheelchair. He’d gone to do his duty a cheerful husband and father and returned broken in mind and body. Sometimes his cruelty scared Em. She tried to tell herself he didn’t mean to frighten her with the vicious things he said and did. That was the only way she could go on feeling positive about everything. But sometimes it was so damned hard that she sat in the lavatory at the bottom of the garden and cried her eyes out.

‘Coming down the Fox tonight, Em?’ Mo asked, bringing Em’s thoughts back to the workshop.

She picked up the pencil attached to her clipboard and marked the card. ‘Dunno. I’d like to.’ It was the only outlet she had, that and listening to the wireless. She liked the comedy shows best because they made her laugh, especially ITMA with Tommy Handley.

Unfortunately, now that Jack was home he didn’t like her going out. There were almighty rows when she came in and he would accuse her of going to the pub to pick up men. It wouldn’t have been so bad but the only man she ever spoke to at the Fox was Sam. Whatever had been between them had ended the moment her husband had returned from war.

‘Want me to come round and call for you?’ Mo asked.

‘Best not,’ said Em. ‘My Doris is a bit poorly.’

She’d hardly got the words out of her mouth when her daughter screamed.

Doris was standing in the corner of the workshop, still holding the broom. ‘Mum! I wet meself!’

Em let the clipboard fall to the floor and ran to Doris, who was bent double with pain. Her waters had broken.

‘It’s the baby, Mum. My tummy’s all tight and funny – and I hurt!’ Doris’s eyes were full of tears.

‘It’s all right, my love. Mo, go and find the duty nurse, or try phoning for an ambulance,’ Em yelled.

Somehow the machinery was switched off and Doris was made as comfortable as possible on the floor in a nest of overalls and jumpers donated by the women. She flatly refused to move from the corner.

‘At least let me get you into a room out of the way of all these people,’ Em implored.

‘Not going nowhere. I hurt.’ Doris screamed as another contraction overtook her.

‘The baby seems in a hurry to get here,’ said Pixie. ‘I reckon Doris has been in labour quite a while and didn’t know it. If that ambulance don’t get here soon, she’ll have the little one on the workshop floor.’

‘Anyone told old Slaughter?’ came a voice.

‘Cedric ran off at the first mention of the baby,’ said Rita. ‘I reckon he’ll have told his old man. Anyway, this ain’t no place for blokes.’

‘Nah, they’re more nuisance than help at a time like this,’ Em said. ‘How about the nurse? Has someone been to get her?’

‘There’s a notice on her door. She’s not in today,’ Pixie said. ‘For a resident nurse she’s never here when she’s needed,’ she grumbled, putting down a cushion made of rolled clothing for Doris to lean her back on. The girl’s face was wet with sweat and she was breathing heavily.

‘Wouldn’t you just believe it?’ cried Em. ‘And here’s me thinking Doris had another month to go at least.’

‘Ooooh,’ yelled Doris.

Em looked at all the women crowding around. ‘For God’s sake, give her some air.’ A thought crossed her mind. ‘Take a break everyone. You can’t work while this is going on.’ To Pixie, she added, ‘If Harry Slaughter wants to have a go at me, he can. I’ll take full responsibility.’

Most of the women filed out, chattering, glancing at Doris, who was curled up in pain, but one portly lady planted herself in front of Em. ‘I was a midwife before I decided the pay’s better here. Do you want me to stay?’

‘God bless you,’ Em said, just as Doris yelled again, this time thrashing her legs and feet on the cold floor.

‘I’ll just wash my hands,’ the woman said calmly. ‘My name’s Freda.’ She hurried off in the direction of the lavatory but within moments was back with the roller towel, which she spread beneath Doris. ‘Put the lights on,’ she said. ‘I need to see what I’m doing.’ The electric light was switched on. ‘On your back, dear,’ she said to Doris. Obediently Doris slid down. Her breathing was now shallow, and Em could see her tensing for another contraction. ‘Get her underclothes off,’ said Freda.

‘Nooooooo!’ wailed Doris. But Em won in the tugging contest and Freda breathed a sigh of relief as the knickers came off and the thick stockings and garters were rolled away.

Pixie came back with a cup of water and a wet cloth. She got Doris to take a drink, then pressed the cloth over her forehead.

‘No time to get her to hospital.’ Freda peered at Doris, then pulled her dress down to cover her. ‘Even supposing there’s room, with the wards full of war wounded. Best get someone to telephone the doctor.’

Rita ran from the room. Pixie put her hands on her own expanding girth and thought about the baby she would have in a few months’ time. Now that she had stopped being sick, she felt very well. She knew that Doris had been collecting bits and pieces for the baby, even trying her hand at knitting. She, however, had done nothing in the way of preparation for her child. Pixie knew it was time now to put thoughts of Cal into a box in her memory and throw away the key. Whatever had happened to make him deny her existence had to be accepted. Now she must look to the future without him.

Freda allowed Doris to do what came naturally and push hard while screaming. Every so often she pulled up the voluminous dress to see what was happening. Em knelt at Doris’s shoulder and held her hand.

‘Stop pushing, dear,’ commanded Freda. ‘I said, stop!’

Freda made Doris lie flat, then said to Em, ‘Hold her away from me. There’s something . . .’

Em grabbed her daughter, keeping her as flat as possible while watching Freda examine her. The woman looked concerned. When she removed her hand it was bloody.

Em’s heart started to race. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

‘She is now,’ she said. ‘Cord was round the little mite’s neck. Go on, love, you can push now,’ she said to Doris.

The girl gave a yell, and out of her slid a little boy, covered in a bloody, greasy substance, plump and already crying.

‘Give me your cardigan,’ Freda said to Em, who struggled out of it and handed it to her. She wrapped the child in it, then placed him on Doris’s breast where he continued to scream lustily. The cord was like a long grey rope joining mother and child.

Doris, quiet now, was looking at the baby with big round eyes that brimmed with love.

‘So many tears of happiness,’ said Freda, looking around her. Not one of the women was dry-eyed.

Em couldn’t speak. She could feel nothing but amazing love for the scene about her and the tiny scrap shrieking and waving his little hands in the air.

Freda pressed Doris’s stomach and said to Rita, who had returned from phoning for the doctor, ‘Give us that paper over there.’

Rita replied, ‘It’s yesterday’s.’

‘I don’t want to read it. It’s to wrap the placenta in.’

For a second there was silence, then laughter took over.

‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you,’ said Em, when they had quietened.

‘No matter how many babies are born, it’s always a miracle,’ Freda said. Then, to Rita, ‘Go and find some tea, love. I’ll die if I don’t have a nice cuppa soon.’

‘I do know the secretarial section has a kettle and a Bunsen burner,’ Rita said. Then, ‘Look at Doris.’

The girl was fast asleep, as was the baby, tired out after his journey into the world.

‘Few more weeks and she’ll be wearing Pixie’s red dress,’ said Rita, walking away.

Em picked up the baby and cuddled him. Immediately the little boy opened his eyes and gazed up at her. Em stared back. Her heart was filled with a feeling that warmed her whole body. It eclipsed all the horrible heartache at home, the money worries, the dreadful war. Em knew that this child had brought with him true happiness. ‘Hello, my love,’ she said.

Chapter Eleven

Bob eyed Marlene as she struggled with the canvas top sheet, pulling and straightening it so she could peg it onto the stall’s metal bars. She stepped down from the wooden stool and stared at him, her hands on her hips.

‘That high one’s a bugger! But it’ll never defeat me!’ She grinned at him, and he dropped the heavy box of books he’d been carrying onto the flat surface of the display shelf. He smiled back at her. She was a hard worker – honest, too – and he hadn’t once thought he’d made a mistake in hiring her. He returned to the van and began unloading boxes of ex-army blankets he’d bought at auction at Minstead in the New Forest.

It was half past four in the morning. A few lights run from generators brightened Gosport high street as traders erected their stalls for the day’s trading. The weather forecast had promised a fine day. A sudden peal of laughter caused Bob to turn in the direction of a nearby stall.