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

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘Are you going over to Newman’s?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When it suits me.’

  ‘You will be… sociable to May when she arrives?’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to act,’ he snapped.

  ‘It’s just she’s––’

  ‘You’re scared I’ll say something.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  A knock came at the front door.

  ‘That’ll be Dorothy,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s looking after her bairn?’

  ‘She’s bringing Victoria with her.’

  Before he could retort, she was off along the passage, opening the door.

  Trevor shot up from the couch and, shrugging into his coat, made for the scullery, slamming out of the backyard door.

  ‘We’ve got a job on, lad,’ the boss greeted him. ‘We’re needed down the block at number ninety-eight.’

  ‘The Duttons’ place?’

  ‘Yes. Charlie died.’

  Without further ado, the boss picked up the board, some clean sheets and pillowcases and made for the door.

  Charlie – otherwise known as Slinky, for reasons unknown to Trevor – was a pitiful excuse of a man, who drowned his sorrows in drink. It was a mystery where he got the money.

  Trevor, picking up the trestle, followed the boss down the street.

  It was late May, and the evening hadn’t yet surrendered to the dark, so neighbours were out on their doorsteps gossiping to one another. As the undertaker and his mate passed them by they fell into watchful silence as though death itself walked between them.

  Outside the door of number ninety-eight, a handful of ruffian children congregated. One of them, a girl with matted hair and rough features, asked shrilly, ‘Mister, is it true? Has Brenda’s da died?’

  ‘Away home the lot of you,’ the boss barked, shushing them off with his free hand.

  The kiddies scarpered.

  Trevor, entering the hall, made his way along the rank-smelling passageway. He found himself in a sparsely furnished kitchen where four scruffy, grave-faced kiddies sat, unbelievably, on wooden crates. It had been a good few years since he’d seen Slinky’s wife and he was appalled at the change in her. As she sat on a three-legged stool, staring at dead embers in the fire, her eyes held a profound look of hopelessness. Emaciated, and of indeterminate age, she had mousy, lacklustre hair that hung limply to her shoulders and, with a prominent nose and pointed chin, she reminded Trevor of a witch in a fairy tale.

  The boss laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘We won’t be long, then we’ll leave you in peace.’

  She rounded on him. ‘Tek as long as you like… that lyin’ sod’s goin’ nowhere.’ Mr Newman retrieved his hand as if it were burned. ‘Lying bugger, telt me he had a job and was gannin’ to work. And there was him throwin’ the drink down his neck. Where did he get the money from… that’s what I’d like to knaa?’

  Wouldn’t we all? Trevor thought.

  The last he’d heard of Slinky – which was over six months ago – was that he’d lost his job as a caulker at the docks. As far as Trevor knew, the bloke had never worked since.

  ‘How did it happen?’ He ventured to ask, then wished he hadn’t when the boss gave him a vexed look.

  ‘Bugger was drunk coming home from The Locomotive at the Mill Dam… toppled off his bike into the path of an oncoming trolley. Killed outright.’ Tears sprouted from the woman’s eyes. ‘Serves the silly sod right.’

  ‘Ah-hem! Shall we get on?’ The boss rolled his eyes at Trevor. ‘Mrs Milne… what are you doing here?’ he asked, sharply.

  Trevor’s Ma stood in the bedroom. She was holding a flannel, which she wrung out over a dish that stood on a chair at her side, before washing blood from Slinky’s face.

  The boss raised his eyebrows questioningly at Trevor, as though this was his fault for not having a word with Ma as promised – but Trevor hadn’t had a chance. Besides, what the boss didn’t grasp was that folk around these parts didn’t take kindly to change and they’d send for Ma no matter what.

  ‘Trevor and I can manage here, thank you.’ Mr Newman’s tone was curt.

  There was an awkward silence when it looked as if Ma might explode. Then, a look of purpose crossing her face, she bent over Slinky and continued with the job in hand.

  ‘Take it up with Elsie Dutton,’ she told the boss. ‘It was her sent for me to lay her fella out.’

  Looking infuriated, the boss quickly recovered and, after inhaling deep calming breaths, his professionalism took over.

  ‘I assume, Mrs Milne, the doctor’s been informed to issue a death certificate.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And the priest, has he been notified to give the last rights?’

  She shrugged. ‘Nowt to do with me.’

  Shoulders back, Mr Newman became his officious self. ‘Trevor, lad, I’m away to arrange such things with the departed’s wife.’

  He marched from the room.

  ‘Upstart.’ Ma fumed. ‘Poking his nose in where it’s not wanted.’

  Trevor thought it best to keep his counsel.

  Charlie Dutton’s skeletal body reposed on the bed. He didn’t look dead. Trevor expected him to open his eyes at any minute, and wisecrack like he usually did.

  Ma took one leg and Trevor the other and together they heaved Slinky’s trousers off to reveal a pair of holed and stained long johns.

  Trevor wrinkled his nose.

  ‘This is no time for sensibilities,’ Ma rebuked. She flapped a clean sheet from its folds.

  Trevor’s eyes wandered around the room. What a way to live, he thought. The only furniture was a wardrobe minus its doors – probably burned when the coal ran out – some rag-like clothes strewn over the bed rail, and a chamber pot under the bed, mercifully empty. That was it – apart from filth and no doubt, bed bugs. Trevor started to scratch.

  ‘If you’re that precious,’ Ma said, tartly, ‘you should have thought twice before taking this job.’

  She gave him an infuriated stare.

  ‘What?’

  Ma rolled up her cardigan sleeves, then dunking the flannel in the water, she wrung it out again.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, d’you?’ She faced him, her neck flushing a bilberry colour. ‘All those folk arriving downstairs at yours and nobody thought to ask my permission.’

  ‘For what?’ Trevor asked, flummoxed.

  ‘It’s common courtesy to tell neighbours – especially when they’re the landlady – there’s ganna be a ruckus.’

  The penny dropped. ‘Ma, it’s nothing of the sort, just Etty inviting a few mates round.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Anyway, where’s Norma in all this?’

  Trevor scratched his head in bemusement. ‘In her cot, of course.’

  ‘Don’t “of course” me. She’ll never sleep. Why didn’t you think to bring her upstairs?’

  So, this was the crux of the matter. Ma was vexed because she wasn’t asked to look after the bairn.

  ‘I’ve explained before, Ma, we’re trying to keep Norma in a routine.’

  ‘I don’t want your explanations, what I want is for you to put your foot down.’ She quivered with vexation. ‘That madam downstairs thinks she can rule the roost. I’ve never heard the like… dictating to me when I can and when I can’t see me own grandchild. You do know she’s playing you for a fool. Call yourself a man, you’re a mouse.’

  That did it. Something inside Trevor snapped.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Ma,’ he said, tightly, ‘will you stop meddling in me affairs? I’ve had enough of you harping on all me life.’

  ‘Well, I never…’ Ma’s mouth went slack and she looked as if she hadn’t heard him right. ‘This is the repayment I get for all me help.’ She shook her head in disgust but he could have sworn there was a modicum of respect in her eyes.

  Quick to recover, she continued. ‘Son, I’ve always done me best. I’m on your sid
e not like yon scheming wife of y––’

  ‘Enough, Ma. From now on keep yer nose out of my affairs. Is that cl––’

  The door flung open and Mr Newman marched in.

  ‘What’s all this rumpus?’ he blazed. ‘Have the two of you forgotten where you are?’

  In answer, Nellie clutched her chest. ‘Eeh! All these shenanigans doesn’t do me heart any good.’

  ‘Mrs Milne…’ The boss’s expression changed to one of qualified concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  She leaned against the bed. ‘I’m fine… don’t you go worrying about me…’ She gave her son a meaningful look. ‘Nobody else seems to.’

  Her chin trembled and tears squeezed from her lids.

  Holy Moses, Trevor thought sourly, Ma knows how to turn the waterworks on.

  ‘I’ve just made Mrs Dutton a cup of tea,’ the boss told her. ‘Why don’t you join her?’

  As she left the room, Trevor would swear she smirked.

  Once she had gone, the boss looked nervously at Trevor. ‘What brought that on? You didn’t tell her about––’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with that,’ Trevor assured him. ‘She’s mad at the wife… something she’s done.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Etty invited some folks around, and Ma isn’t suited.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ the boss replied, looking baffled.

  ‘Matter of fact,’ Trevor said, as an afterthought, ‘one of them is your niece, May Robinson.’

  The boss beamed. ‘That is kind of your wife. The girl needs cheering up. She’s split up from her fellow and he’s been posted abroad.’

  Trevor’s rib cage relaxed. Etty had told the truth about that. Now, at least, he didn’t have to watch his back every time he went out.

  ‘Right lad, let’s get on. Mrs Dutton says she wants her dearly departed buried in his suit.’

  The news that Slinky was to be buried in a suit astonished Trevor. He would’ve sworn on his life the bloke didn’t own one.

  The pair of them worked in silence, dressing Slinky in a mothball-smelling suit they discovered at the back of the wardrobe. Mr Newman then took a little pot of rouge from his jacket pocket and, applying some to Slinky’s cheeks and lips, finished off by combing the thinning brown hair. It occurred to Trevor that Charlie Dutton looked a sight better dead than he ever had alive.

  ‘All that remains to be done is to put the finishing touches to the coffin. Let’s see,’ Mr Newman checked his watch, ‘we could be finished and deliver the coffin by midnight. Does that suit you, lad?’ It was common practice to move the coffin at night so that the neighbours wouldn’t be disturbed.

  ‘Aye… I mean, yes.’ Trevor certainly didn’t want to go home yet, not with Etty’s mates in his house. ‘That suits me fine. I can manage on a few hours kip.’

  Trevor’s eyes travelled to Slinky’s feet and he noticed they’d left the bloke’s socks on. They were the thick woollen type, held up by suspenders at the knee. Slinky’s big toe poked out of a hole in one of them. As he removed the offending sock – so stiff with dried sweat it probably could stand up by itself – Trevor noticed something drop to the floor. He picked it up, astonished to find it was a wad of money. Crikey, he thought, as he leafed through the notes, it was a tidy sum.

  The boss raised his eyebrows. ‘Lad, it never ceases to amaze me what you come across in this line of work.’

  He pulled back his shoulders, taking the notes from Trevor, and made for the door.

  Mrs Dutton, still sitting by the fire, looked up at the boss in amazement when he pressed the roll of notes to her hand, a glimmer of hope shining in her eyes.

  Aye, Trevor thought, another fool hoodwinked by the one they loved.

  Dorothy was the first to arrive, carrying Victoria in a Moses basket.

  ‘She’s just settled after her last feed.’ Her face wearing her perpetual worried expression of late, Dorothy hurried along the passage.

  ‘Best you put her in the back bedroom with Norma, where they won’t be disturbed,’ Etty called.

  Another knock at the door. Etty put out the light and opened it and made out the outline of May and Bertha.

  ‘Leave the door ajar,’ Bertha said, as she bundled in. ‘Ada Barker, as per usual, is lagging behind.’

  Etty took their coats, putting them on the bed in the front room and ushering her guests along the passage, into the kitchen.

  Soon, the five of them were sitting companionably in front of the fire talking about mutual acquaintances at the factory but the mood became sombre when Bertha asked if anyone had heard about Joe Dent, a fellow factory worker.

  ‘Poor chap… didn’t make it…’ she heaved a great sigh. ‘His ship was torpedoed and he was one of the unlucky ones.’

  Etty looked over to Dorothy, sitting on the couch, whose face had gone chalk white. The evening was supposed to cheer her up, but with this reminder of death, Etty feared the opposite might be true.

  She pulled a warning face at Bertha.

  The older woman mouthed surreptitiously, ‘Sorry hinny, I never thowt.’

  She leapt from her chair and, fiddling with the knobs on the wireless, found a programme broadcasting Glenn Miller’s catchy music.

  ‘Haway,’ she chivvied the others. ‘Take your partners.’

  Etty pulled Ada from her chair. ‘Come on, we’ll show them how to do it.’

  Etty leading, they danced the quick step around the room to the tune of ‘In the Mood’. Bertha took to the floor with May and the four of them, bumping into each other like dodgem cars, ended up laughing hysterically. Dorothy, watching on, smiled at their silly escapades.

  Bertha then produced from her handbag a bottle of spirit.

  ‘Who’s for a drop o’gin?’

  Etty brought tumblers from the scullery cabinet and the five of them formed a circle and toasted one another.

  ‘I’m just thankful, lass,’ Bertha chinked her glass with Etty’s, ‘that you and me survived the bombing. That was a close shave if ever there was one.’

  Etty cringed, worried that her friend might, inadvertently, let something damning slip about that fated night.

  She changed the subject. ‘If anybody wants, there’s port left over from Christmas.’

  The evening proceeded in full swing, with people dancing and May and Bertha polishing off what was left of the bottle of gin. May got maudlin at one point and looked as though she might burst into tears.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ada asked.

  ‘It’ll be the gin,’ Bertha assured. ‘It does the same to me.’

  May shrugged off the attention. ‘The night’s not about me.’

  In the bedroom, Dorothy was feeding Victoria but she wouldn’t settle.

  ‘Bring her here,’ Bertha called through. ‘I’m a dab hand at getting bairns to sleep.’ She opened her ample legs and made a hammock of her skirt. ‘A bit of rocking in this will soon have her off.’

  It did.

  The evening ended with May and Dorothy asleep on the couch, while the other three nattered about women’s place in the workforce, amongst other things, over a cup of tea.

  Bertha, cheeks flushed with all the high jinks, said, ‘Did you hear what Mr Attlee was reported as saying? That the work us women are doing in factories has to be seen to be believed… and he’s right.’ She pulled an indignant face. ‘After this war is won, you won’t catch me going back to being a dogsbody to my lot at home.’ She turned to Etty. ‘How about you, hinny? Will you make it back to work?’

  Etty pulled a noncommittal face. If her plan to move in with Dorothy worked, it would be sooner than any of them might think.

  ‘I’ve told my hubby,’ Bertha continued, ‘that if he thinks I’m going to slave––’

  As if on cue, a knock came at the front door.

  ‘That’ll be him now, come to walk us home.’ She rose to go to the door, and said, somewhat shamefaced, over her shoulder, ‘Poor love, he’ll be starved. I only left him a sandwich for
his supper.’

  Etty suppressed a grin. So much for her being a dogsbody. She woke May and Dorothy, and brought out the coats. ‘I’ve had a lovely night, thanks,’ May told her.

  The company said their goodbyes while Dorothy stayed behind in the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t worry about these two…’ Bertha nodded to Ada as they all stood inside the door, ‘Bert and me will see they get safely home. It’s on our way.’ She turned to Etty. ‘Thanks, hinny, I’ve had a grand night.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll do it again. It’s done Dorothy the power of good.’

  ‘Aye, but she looks done in.’

  Bert, impatient to be off home, gave his wife a beady eye.

  ‘Men,’ she tutted.

  ‘You looked pooped,’ Etty told her sister, as she came into the kitchen. It was an understatement – Dorothy looked haggard.

  ‘Victoria is so good,’ she yawned, ‘but the night feeds are taking their toll. I don’t like to complain but it’ll be wonderful when she sleeps through.’

  Etty had a brainwave. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I have her for the night? It seems such a shame to disturb her now she’s settled.’

  ‘I couldn’t, I––’

  ‘Yes, you could… just this once. You’ve brought plenty of dried milk and bottles. And I’ve got lots of nappies.’

  ‘Won’t she disturb Norma?’

  ‘I’ll bring Victoria in the bedroom with us.’ It was a measure of her sister’s tiredness that she hesitated. ‘Go on… you need a good night’s rest and you’ll be a better mother for it.’

  That did it.

  ‘If you’re sure. I could do with the sleep.’

  Etty bustled her sister to the door before she could change her mind.

  ‘I’ll be here first thing in the morning to collect her.’

  Seeing the bruises beneath her sister’s eyes, Etty doubted it.

  As he walked Ma home, annoyance festered within Trevor and he couldn’t bring himself to be civil enough to chat. Ma was just as bad, with aggrieved sighs and heavy silences.

  When they came to her front door, she feigned weakness and leaned against the stanchion.

  ‘Here, give us the key,’ he said, shortly.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of opening me own front door.’