The Orphan Sisters: An Utterly Heartbreaking and Gripping World War 2 Historical Novel

by Shirley Dickson

Trevor looked nonplussed.

  ‘The girlfriend… a floozy?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Is it true that your mam delivers babies?’

  ‘Aye. Not so much now though.’

  ‘How long have you lived in Whale Street?’

  Trevor finally opened up, and told her about his parents. After they married, they had lived with his maternal grandfather – a retired sea-going engineer. His grandfather, a widower, resided in a rambling house with an orchard crammed with fruit trees. After his grandfather’s demise the house was sold and the proceeds shared between Trevor’s mam and a younger brother – a councillor apparently, and a prominent man in the town. With her inheritance, his mother had bought the pair of flats they lived in and rented the downstairs.

  ‘Me ma was only interested in the top end of Whale Street,’ Trevor said, ‘where solicitors and the like reside.’ All he said about his father when asked was, ‘He was in the medical profession.’

  His lips pressed together in a mulish way and Etty didn’t pursue the matter. After all, she thought, she had secrets too. She felt honoured he’d confided in her and felt closer to him as a result of it.

  ‘Mine died before I was born.’ A sense of loss overcame Etty. She’d never known her father, didn’t even have a picture of him and had never even known the timbre of his voice. Her own voice faltered. ‘He… was called Harold and he died from war injuries.’

  ‘What about your mam?’

  ‘She came from a well-to-do family. But she… died when I was little.’ She hadn’t told a lie, Etty consoled herself, for, as far as she was concerned, Mam had died all those years ago.

  ‘That was hard luck. Who brought you up?’

  ‘An orphanage.’

  Trevor’s features softened in sympathy. About to reply, something caught his eye and he looked past her. Etty turned and followed his gaze. A funeral car drew up to the kerb, its bonnet gleaming in the sunlight. A man, short and dapper, wearing a black suit and carrying a top hat, climbed out of the motorcar and disappeared into a shop doorway.

  ‘That’s Mr Newman.’ Trevor’s voice held a note of reverence. ‘A man I’m going to work for someday. He owns the funeral parlour.’

  Etty shuddered. Death, especially these days, was something she’d rather not think about, let alone have to deal with in her line of work.

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Because it’s a collar and tie job.’

  It certainly took all sorts, she thought, but it wouldn’t do if everyone was squeamish like her. Maybe though, like everything else, undertaking simply became a job. Somebody had to do this unsavoury yet essential work – and her respect for Trevor grew.

  Her eyes travelled to the other side of the street, to the funeral parlour. Printed at the top of the window, in gold lettering, were the words, ‘Newman’s Funeral Directors’. A hand was painted on the door with its forefinger pointing to the bell and the inscription, ‘we never sleep’.

  As Etty pondered the ambiguous statement, the door was flung open and a rather stout woman emerged. Her feet were clad in brogue shoes and she carried the obligatory gas mask and wore the green uniform of the Women’s Voluntary Service who, Etty knew, were valued for their service in the community. WVS women helped families find rest homes when they were bombed out, sought out second-hand clothes for children and ran mobile canteens for the rescue services. Etty held the women in high regard.

  ‘I’ve no time to check the laundry, Roland,’ the woman called over a shoulder. ‘Do it yerself for once. I’m late for the staffing meeting as it is.’

  She slammed the parlour door shut with such force that Etty marvelled the glass pane didn’t shatter.

  Trevor watched the woman bustle self-importantly up the street and grinned. ‘You’d think the whole caboodle would collapse if she didn’t attend.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Ramona Newman. She thinks she’s somebody because she married a man of means.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘But trying to be a lady is an upward struggle. She keeps lapsing into Geordie twang and by his expression you can tell it infuriates Mr Newman.’

  Etty thought this all a bit harsh and was about to say so but Trevor started heading off up the street. As she caught up with him outside his front door she asked, ‘Shall I wait here?’

  Her expectation was to be invited in.

  ‘Yes, I won’t be long.’

  His feet thudded up the stairs.

  Left alone on the doorstep, Etty wondered about his mother, whom he was loath to let her meet.

  11

  The rambling walk up the coast road took them to Blackberry Hills. They sat on a waterproof coat in a clearing, staring at the glittering sea far below.

  ‘You can’t escape it, can you… the war?’ Etty stared at a concrete structure ahead of them. The pillbox – part of the war office defence system – was a stark reminder of a possible sea invasion. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Jerry plane from the other day plunging into the sea, smoke billowing. The weather had grown cooler and, as she gazed to the expanse of sea far below she hugged the knitted cardigan she wore tightly around her chest. A life snuffed out, she thought. Gulls swooped to perch on a rock’s jagged summit; their faint screeches floating across the sea to them.

  Etty leaned back on her hands and inhaled the bracing sea air.

  ‘Ow!’ she cried, as a stab of pain jabbed her palm.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Etty inspected the painful area. ‘I’ve been stung by a nettle.’

  ‘Don’t scratch… it’ll only make it worse. What we need is a dock leaf.’ Trevor combed the grass. ‘Here,’ he tugged at a big leaf and, crushing it, rubbed its vein on Etty’s palm.

  His head was bent over her hand and she smelled the musky scent emanating from him. When he looked up, their faces inches apart, their eyes met and a sensuous ache came into Etty’s abdomen. Her body longed for something, yet she knew not what, as she was inexperienced in such matters. Trevor leaned forward, his desire clear in his eyes. His soft lips touched hers, they kissed, and it felt natural as his tongue sought hers.

  Their first goodnight kiss, standing outside the front door in the blackout, had been awkward. At a loss as to what to do, she’d puckered up and Trevor, missing her mouth, had kissed her nose.

  ‘Oops,’ she’d tried to make light of the uncomfortable moment.

  This time when their lips met, the absurdity of kissing left her. Lost in passion, Etty forgot the throb in her palm, aware only of his warm, soft lips – that tasted curiously of peppermint – on hers. As arousal burned within her, her eyes blinked open and she pulled away, a little shocked.

  He took her hand. ‘Can we make it official; that we’re a courting couple?’

  ‘Blimey, we hardly know each other.’

  His serious green eyes met hers. ‘I know enough to want you to be my girl.’

  Taken aback by his words, Etty wrenched her arm free.

  ‘Trevor… I do like you but… I thought we were just having fun. Anything more serious takes time.’

  His face darkened. ‘You’re the same as the rest… a tease… leading a bloke on.’

  Her feelings injured, Etty stood up. She stomped down the hill.

  Trevor didn’t call after her.

  Retracing her steps along the coastal path and over the sand dunes, Etty made her way up the steps to the top of the railway bridge. She paused to look out over the sea, slate-grey now the sun had vanished.

  She looked up the path but Trevor was nowhere in sight. Vexed at his insult, she told herself she didn’t care. A tease, indeed!

  Homeward bound, she walked through the allotments; long, thin strips of land running parallel to one another, where every type of vegetable grew and brick-built pigsties were fenced off from wooden chicken houses. With no gardeners in sight, presumably away home for their tea, Etty snapped pea pods from the vine and shelled them, popping them into her mouth. Firm an
d sweet, they reminded her of the orphanage vegetable patch. She pulled a wry face. Who’d have thought she’d miss anything from that dratted place? But she did. She missed the garden’s variety of colour – the sweet-smelling green grass and the beautiful array of flowers: vibrant bell-shaped petunias; hydrangeas that retain their glorious blossom till winter; pretty marigolds and a profusion of busy lizzies dotted about in pots. And the trees, the tall and leggy silver birches, the towering oaks, the embodiment of endurance and strength – the trees she’d sit beneath in the shade and ponder life. But mostly, Etty missed the sense of space. She had never been happier than she was now but Whale Street, with its tall terraced houses where the sun couldn’t filter through, left her feeling hemmed in.

  A thought struck her, that made her infinitely sad. She couldn’t live with her sister forever and, sometime soon, she’d have to move on. Although Dorothy and Laurie insisted they loved having her with them, the time would surely come when they would want the place to themselves. Unnerved, Etty wondered what she would do.

  ‘Etty, wait!’

  The shout broke into her thoughts. She threw the pea pods into the grass and turned to watch Trevor, his expression unreadable, striding towards her.

  ‘You insulted me,’ she said.

  He stared into the distance as if trying to form the right words.

  ‘I only spoke the truth…’ he finally said, ‘as I saw it. But I admit I might have made a mistake.’ His expression was conciliatory. ‘Do you then… do you still want to go out with me?’

  She glimpsed a look of anxiety in his eyes and realised that this really mattered to him. Her heart melted because she knew past events shaped people’s lives and she suspected Trevor could no more help his abrupt manner than she could overcome her mistrust of people. This knowledge made Trevor more human in her eyes. She gave him a tender smile.

  ‘Will you give us another chance?’ he asked.

  Intuitively, she knew how much this cost him.

  ‘I’m not doing anything on Tuesday. We could go to the flicks, if you like?’

  He smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘But we’re not going serious, mind.’

  In September the blitz started in earnest. Cities were bombarded and civilians were given the worst taste of the war yet. London suffered the worst, with air raids every day, the cost in human life unthinkable.

  Etty thought, as she read the latest reports, that if Hitler thought he could crush the British morale, he could think again. Citizens, outraged, were determined to withstand the onslaught and everywhere you looked, on boarded-up buildings and windows, was the slogan, ‘Business as usual’ chalked on walls.

  Etty thought the shelter in the yard didn’t provide much protection. Brick-built with a reinforced concrete roof, it had passed the council inspector’s inspection. But so, probably, had the factory shelter she’d heard about that was blown to smithereens. No, Etty would rather take her chances under the stairs where it was warm and relatively comfortable. Up till now, she had got away with it – but not tonight when Dorothy was home from work.

  As the siren wailed its chilling warning just before midnight, Etty was handed a blanket and pillow and ushered by Dorothy into the shelter that they shared with the Armstrongs, an elderly couple that lived upstairs.

  ‘It’ll be claustrophobic,’ Etty told her sister, a wobble in her voice.

  ‘Under the stairs isn’t, I suppose.’ Her sister raised an eyebrow. ‘No, my girl, I want you safe with me in the shelter and no argument.’

  Her girl. Etty was transported back to the orphanage… and the longing for her mother that was always under the surface came to the fore.

  Then, the distant drone of an aeroplane brought her back to reality. As a cold hand of fear stroked the length of her spine, Etty tensed. Hearing bomber planes didn’t get any easier. Dorothy grasped her arm and raced her to the relative safety of the shelter.

  Cold and damp, the shelter had only two slim bunks. The sisters made do with basket chairs if they happened to sleep – almost an impossibility if a raid was on. Apart from a hurricane lamp, candles, a pile of books, flasks of hot water and makings for tea, there were no other comforts. Mr Armstrong, nudging seventy, didn’t have teeth and his smiles were gummy. His wife, a wiry woman stricken with nerves, complained bitterly about the damp and draughty conditions, wringing her hands and talking non-stop.

  ‘Lord help us… here they come,’ she cried.

  The throbbing of Jerry planes came terrifyingly closer. As planes roared overhead, a horrifying whistling noise pierced the air and time stood still. Then came a blast and a terrific explosion, the earth rocking, walls shaking, cups rattling. Mrs Armstrong was thrown from the lower bunk bed.

  Etty, unable to move, sat frozen. Her fingernails, she realised, had dug into the palms of her hands. As clouds of dust filtered through the cracks of the ill-fitting wooden door, she began coughing.

  As the plane roared into the distance towards Sunderland area, there came a lull.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Armstrong?’ Dorothy’s voice was unsteady. She rushed with Etty and aided the old woman back onto the bed. Dazed and shaken, their neighbour didn’t utter a word.

  In the candlelight, Dorothy’s scared eyes met her sister’s. ‘That was too close for comfort.’

  Christmas 1940 came and went, not holding much hope for ‘Peace on Earth’ in the future. Images in the newspapers revealed the destruction in London after the latest enemy air attack. St Paul’s Cathedral miraculously survived, majestic with its cross – a beacon of hope – towering high in the sky amidst the devastation of buildings burned to the ground.

  ‘Apparently,’ Dorothy told her sister, ‘Winston Churchill ordered the cathedral to be saved at all costs to boost morale. I think they formed a special band of firewatchers to protect it.’

  ‘Well, it worked,’ Etty replied. ‘And his rousing speeches helped too, I think the nation’s courage and sense of unity has survived.’

  It had been a while since Dorothy had heard from Laurie. She wasn’t unduly perturbed as it was the way of the war, but she would have been greatly relieved if a letter had popped through the letterbox.

  By the end of January, on a cold and snowy day, Etty lay on the couch, watching snowflakes as they fell, hypnotically, thick and fast outside the window. She had worked the night shift and considered her life turned upside-down. Finishing at six in the morning and home in bed by eight, she slept through until early afternoon – apart from, that is, when kiddies playing in the lane woke her up. She was lethargic, with scratchy eyes, and starving, but didn’t know what kind of meal she wanted. She could never decide if her first meal of the day should be breakfast or tea.

  As it was Dorothy’s afternoon off work, she’d been grocery shopping, leaving Etty to rest. Pulling out items from the message bag, she ticked them off a list.

  ‘Palmolive soap, flour, Drene shampoo, two rations of bacon, a smidgeon of butter and sugar.’

  ‘Ooo! What’s for tea?’ Etty asked.

  ‘Sardines.’

  ‘Ugh! Not again.’

  ‘I can’t help it if the shelves are bare… blame Mr Hitler, it’s because of him that foods are rationed.’ Dorothy’s face flushed in a rare fit of pique.

  ‘I know we have to make do for the war effort.’ Etty’s tone was appeasing. ‘And you do wonders, the way you manage.’

  As she watched her sister carrying tins of food into the scullery, Etty considered that she would never be as skinny as Dorothy; she liked her grub too much. Yawning, she remembered the dubious compliment Trevor had paid her.

  ‘I like a lass with a bit of flesh on her bones.’

  Etty was reminded of meat hanging in a butcher’s shop window. Trevor had redeemed himself by adding that she looked like the pin-up Betty Grable. Which was daft, because of course Etty didn’t compare with the beautiful star – especially those famous legs – but it was lovely he thought so.

  The couple saw e
ach other regularly and, as he opened up, Etty enjoyed listening to him, especially his opinions which surprised her as he shared deep and meaningful thoughts on all kinds of subjects that set her mind thinking.

  ‘I’ve never talked so openly like this to anyone before,’ he admitted. ‘I’m usually rather standoffish.’

  That was another thing she liked about Trevor, his brutal honesty. She could easily be gone on him but memories of Blakely, and the bleak despair she had lived through at the hands of others, reinforced her guarded heart.

  Now, Etty smoothed the dressing gown over her bust. She’d grown to a 36C cup and if she didn’t watch out, she’d end up as top-heavy as her friend, Bertha Cuthbertson.

  ‘You should think yourself lucky. Mine are like fried eggs.’ Dorothy told her sister. She stood in the scullery doorway, staring down at the small twin peaks of her jumper. ‘Small sized eggs.’

  She cut a comical figure, standing there looking at her breasts and Etty started to giggle. Dorothy, seeing the funny side, joined in. It felt good to be untroubled and share a joke. It was rare these days, amongst the terrors of the war.

  Later, after tea, when Etty should have been getting ready for work, she groaned, ‘I do so hate the nightshift when time drags and everyone is in the doldrums. I want your job on the buses, with nothing to do but be sociable and take fares.’

  ‘That’s all you know…’ Dorothy remarked. She sat in the armchair knitting what appeared to be a sock. ‘What with grumpy drivers who take their grievances out on their fellow men by driving recklessly around corners… I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been tossed about in the aisles. And grouchy passengers who can be perfectly uncivil.’ She turned her work and began another row. ‘No, my girl, you’re best off where you are.’

  Etty felt comforted by Dorothy’s words. The bad times at the orphanage, she realised, had been cushioned for her, because she’d had her sister to rely on – but what of Dorothy? Who had she to depend on? Wrapped up in her own misery back at Blakely, Etty had never given her sister a second thought. But she did now and said so.