The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Shirley Dickson

  Sandra turned and met the imperious stare of her employer, Clara Kirton, who sat on the chaise longue, the house accounts book in her hand. A slim woman, she wore a two-piece velvet costume with jacket to the hips and a blouse with a ruffled collar.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kirton. Just give us time to do the—’

  ‘How many times, girl, do I have to tell you? The word is me. I don’t want common language in my house.’

  As she considered her employer’s dissatisfied expression, Sandra wondered, as she often did, what Mrs Kirton had to complain about. After all, she had everything Sandra could only dream of. A husband, family and beautiful home.

  As she moved towards the fireplace, Sandra’s thoughts of family turned naturally to her younger brother, Alf, the only relative she possessed. Mam had died in childbirth and Dad, unable to cope because of illness, and with no relatives to speak of, had sent his two bairns to the orphanage. The mistress there decreed that boys and girls weren’t allowed to mix, so Alf was sent to the boys’ department. Both brother and sister had been desperately homesick and had pined for each other.

  Her eyes blurry with the memory, Sandra became aware of Mrs Kirton’s haughty expression and discontented stare. Fingers grasping the string of pearls around her neck, her employer seemed agitated.

  ‘I want this house spotless for Duncan’s homecoming this afternoon.’

  At the mention of Duncan Kirton a knot of tension tightened in Sandra’s stomach.

  The Kirtons had two grown-up children. Miriam, who lived in Yorkshire with her husband and small child, rarely came to visit. Duncan, the eldest, had been conscripted in the forces at the beginning of the war. Sandra had been delighted and relieved to see him go.

  ‘Stop dawdling, girl. You can start by cleaning the brasses.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kirton.’ As she placed the coal scuttle at the side of the mottled marble fireplace, Sandra thought to herself, If you think I give a hoot about your precious son’s homecoming, you can think again.

  ‘Will Mr Duncan be staying long?’ Sandra held her breath. She didn’t trust Duncan Kirton.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ Mrs Kirton snapped the account book shut and stood up.

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘You’re here to work not think. Now set the fire and say no more. And make sure you riddle the ashes.’

  There was no pleasing Mrs Kirton when she was in this kind of disgruntled mood. Sandra mentally shrugged and got on with her jobs. It was a rare occasion indeed for a fire to be lit in the front room and Sandra wondered what Mr Kirton would have to say. Probably nothing. Cecil Kirton didn’t involve himself in family affairs. A partner at Carstairs and Kirton solicitors in the town, of an evening he usually sat in the small room off the master bedroom, a paraffin heater on for warmth, his office papers spread over an inlaid desk. The rest of the family used the dining room – a comfortable room with wall mouldings and painted frieze, a round mahogany table and chairs, and a pianola that Sandra secretly would have loved to have a go on – where a meagre fire burned in the grate.

  Mrs Kirton made for the door. Her hand on the brass handle, she hesitated and then turned. ‘My son will be staying the night. See to it that his bed is aired and a fire set in his room.’

  She swept from the room, clashing the door behind her.

  There was no need to guess who the favoured child was. Duncan Kirton was a year older than Sandra. When she’d begun working for the Kirton household, missing her brother terribly, Sandra had at first had a soft spot for the quiet teenage Duncan. But he had changed as he got older, became more assured – his manner sometimes bordering on arrogance. He blossomed into a handsome young man who liked to tease Sandra when his parents weren’t around because they were apt to frown on him fraternising with the staff. Sandra took his naughtiness – when he would hide and suddenly pounce on her, laughing and grabbing her around the waist – all in good humour.

  She wouldn’t now, though, knowing what she did from Molly, the sacked scullery maid. She kept out of his way when he was home, wary of attracting his attention in any way.

  Sandra missed her brother Alf terribly. She’d seen him only twice since she’d left the orphanage; he’d always been at school when she had her afternoon off and neither the mistress of Blakeley or Mrs Kirton would compromise. Alf was now in the RAF, stationed somewhere down south. They corresponded with the help of Mrs Goodwin, who’d been kind when Sandra, knowing that Mrs Goodwin liked to read romance novels, in desperation had swallowed her pride and told her, shamefaced, that she could neither read nor write.

  ‘I skipped school when I was young,’ Sandra had explained. ‘Mam took in washing and I stayed at home to look after me little brother, Alf.’ She didn’t add that at the orphanage, too mortified to show her failing in front of the younger orphans, she’d sat at the back of the class where she could count on being ignored.

  ‘What about yer dad?’ Mrs Goodwin had looked at the girl with compassion.

  ‘He was an invalid. He had a weak heart from when he was injured in the Great War.’ In case Mrs Goodwin thought badly of him, Sandra quickly added, ‘Sometimes Dad manged to cobble neighbours’ worn-out shoes in the kitchen.’

  ‘Hinny, never think you’re dumb.’ Mrs Goodwin’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re just unschooled. And you lack confidence. But tell me’ – she gave Sandra a quizzical look – ‘how do you manage here when you’re sent for the rations and so forth?’

  ‘I’ve taught myself to have a good memory.’

  Mrs Goodwin was only too pleased to help. So, on Wednesdays, when Sandra needed Alf’s letter to be read, or a reply to be written, Sandra called in at Mrs Goodwin’s house in Wharton Street on her way back to the Kirtons’ after she finished work at the WVS clothes depot. After a time, it was agreed that Sandra write and tell her brother to send his letters to Mrs Goodwin’s address. Sandra thought it a good idea as she always felt uncomfortable when Mrs Kirton handed her the post, as if the woman was doing Sandra a favour.

  Now, with the noise of the door slamming ringing in her ears, Sandra knelt in front of the fireplace and riddled the cinders with tongs for any lumps of coal. Like everything else, coal was in short supply and every bit had to be salvaged. She set the fire ready to be lit and, rising from her knees, wandered over to the bay where faded red velvet curtains with tie-backs framed the inset window. Through the sticky paper she looked out again at the spectacular view. The twin arms of the piers dominated the sea view, and a pilot’s boat, a frothy white in its wake, bustled over to where a freighter waited beyond the harbour in deep swelling waters.

  The front doorbell rang, and Sandra, startled, automatically smoothed her apron and made for the hallway.

  She opened the door.

  ‘Hi, Ma. I caught an earlier train as I… Oh, it’s you.’

  Duncan stood thickset and tall in his army greatcoat, cap covering his cropped black hair, and a duffle bag slung over a shoulder. His dark eyes observed her.

  Sandra backed away and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Duncan… darling.’ Mrs Kirton pushed forward and, taking her son’s arm, ushered him into the narrow hallway. ‘Come in and let me take a look at you.’

  Sandra stepped out of the way, overturning the umbrella stand.

  ‘Stupid girl…’ Mrs Kirton glowered.

  Sandra took the word ‘stupid’ to heart. Then she thought of Cook’s words: If I was you, love, I’d take no notice. Don’t let Mrs Kirton get you down. Sandra hoped Cook’s self-assurance would rub off on her one day. She pushed the hurtful word to the back of her mind.

  As Duncan was led away, Sandra saw his lingering glance and recoiled.

  Shaken, Sandra immersed herself in her work, setting and lighting the fires, polishing brass doorknobs, tidying and dusting rooms. Lastly, she stripped beds. When she’d finished, flushed and ready for a cup of tea, she realised now was not the time for a break as it was Monday – wash day.

  Making her way into the yard, Sandr
a filled a washtub with buckets of steaming hot water from a boiler she’d lit earlier in the washhouse. Possing the clothes with a poss stick until her arms ached, she rinsed them in cold water in a tin bath, then hauled the mangle out of the washhouse into the yard.

  The day was cold and a blustery wind rattled around the yard. Mrs Goodwin appeared wearing a wool hat, gloves and scarf. ‘I’ll give yi’ a hand, hinny, I’ve time. I’ll feed the clothes in the roller. You catch them and hang them on the line. Then we’ll have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Won’t Mr Kirton be coming home soon for his dinner?’

  ‘We’ll make time.’ Cook’s voice was firm.

  Later, when Sandra entered the kitchen where the heat from the range made the skin on her cheeks tingle, Mrs Goodwin handed her a cup of steaming tea.

  ‘Why that man can’t go to the Co-op café for his dinner like he used to,’ she continued on from their earlier conversation, ‘is beyond me. Though, if yi’ ask me…’ She eyed the door and lowered her voice. ‘…the Kirtons are skint.’

  ‘They can’t be… he’s a professional man, a solicitor.’ Sandra repeated the words Mrs Kirton was wont to say on occasions she wanted to impress.

  ‘Aye, well my Tommy says with this war on folk like him are hard done by ’cos folk aren’t buying and selling houses any more which brings in big money. According to Tommy, solicitors these days must make do with being executor of wills and disputes and such things. My Tommy likes to look these things up.’ A glow of pride spread across her round, good-natured face.

  Sandra thought that Tommy Goodwin was wasting his talents by working at Middle Docks.

  Mrs Goodwin’s expression was knowing. ‘I reckon that’s why her ladyship’s keyed up… she’s been doing the account book.’

  She moved to the range and bent over to open the door. The meaty smell wafting from the oven intensified, and the hollow feeling in her belly reminded Sandra that she was starved.

  Mrs Goodwin only worked mornings, which she professed was fine as she didn’t want a full-time job. ‘I’ve stayed at home to bring me three kids up. I first came to work to help with the finances, but now, with the bairns up and gone, I’m at a loose end. Mind you’ – she folded her arms as if to verify a fact – ‘I still maintain that running a home to a certain standard is a full-time job.’

  Sandra was envious of Cook’s life but she despaired of ever meeting a fellow herself. Sandra often experienced an overwhelming desire to turn her life around, but it was difficult to know where to start.

  ‘The Kirtons should think themselves lucky,’ Cook prattled as she prepared mashed potatoes in the pan, ‘having friendly butchers givin’ them joints of meat wrapped in brown paper at church. While mugs like me have to wait in never ending butchers’ queues with God only knows what at the end.’

  ‘Here, I’ll do that.’ Sandra, placing her empty cup on the table, took the fork out of Cook’s hand.

  As Sandra mashed, Mrs Goodwin picked up the meat knife. She eyed Sandra. ‘Me and Tommy spoke about yi’ last night. He thinks it high time you learnt to read and write. Because, lass, as he says, you’re not going to get anywhere in this life without.’

  Sandra, overwhelmed that the pair of them cared, was just about to say so when the front door slammed.

  Mrs Goodwin’s eyebrows raised. ‘Mr Kirton’s home and wantin’ his dinner. I’ll dish up in case you give them too much soup. ‘Cos that’ll be me starved as there’s nowt to eat in the pantry at home.’

  Sandra hurried from the kitchen into the passageway and almost collided with Mr Kirton as he made for the dining-room door. A lean man of average height, Mr Kirton looked dapper in his dark three-piece tailored suit and highly polished black shoes. Sandra thought there was no way Mr Kirton could be down on his luck when he could dress in such a way.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Kirton.’

  He handed over his bowler hat and umbrella which Sandra hung on the coat stand in the narrow hallway. She placed his briefcase on the floor and followed him into the dining room.

  The table had been set beforehand, and Sandra had added an extra place for Duncan.

  For the best part of the next hour, she fetched and carried the meal. She caught only snatches of the conversation around the table, which seemed to be mainly about Duncan.

  ‘The fact is, Ma,’ he said as Sandra put a cup of tea before him, ‘word has it, I’m to be posted abroad soon.’

  Sandra almost dropped the glass jug of milk she carried she was so relieved.

  ‘That’s why I’m here, to spend a night or two with the folks before I go.’ He looked up and met Sandra’s eyes. He gave an indolent leer.

  Sandra saw her employer flush from the neck upwards. Nothing missed Mrs Kirton’s sharp eyes.

  3

  That evening, when Sandra went into the front room to answer the call bell that had rung in the kitchen, the blackout curtains were drawn in the bay window and the twin standard lamps shed shadowy, muted light. The air in the room was a fug of tobacco smoke.

  Mr Kirton and Duncan sat at opposite ends of the plush but faded settee, facing each other. Mr Kirton had changed into his blue silk smoking jacket, while Duncan, pipe clenched in his mouth, still wore his khaki uniform.

  ‘Bring the brandy bottle and two glasses.’ Mr Kirton gave her a fleeting glance.

  Sandra, hurrying to the dining room to the drinks cabinet, discovered the room was empty. Mrs Kirton likely had gone to bed early. She’d complained of a troublesome headache at teatime. Making a mental note to check on her employer before she retired to bed, a sudden flash of rebellion zipped through her. Why should she? The small of her back hurt, her arm muscles ached, a stiff neck sent a shooting pain through her head, but could she go to bed? Not likely.

  Fetching the half-empty brandy bottle and two crystal glasses from the almost depleted drinks cabinet, Sandra tramped back to the front room and opened the door.

  ‘Young James is concerned about the firm’s survival,’ she heard Mr Kirton tell his son.

  James Carstairs had taken over the solicitor’s business after his father had died a few years before. Sandra had overheard Mr Kirton and his wife discussing it over breakfast one day. James had made Mr Kirton senior partner when he’d been conscripted and Mr Kirton now ran the office alone with only a clerk to help him.

  Mr Kirton continued, ‘Thing is, James worries because the business has been hit hard by the war. The good fellow has written to advise me that he’s arranged to send money from his pay to meet the rates and running costs. He says he wants a business to come home to.’

  At times like this, Sandra thought, it never occurred to Mr Kirton she was listening in – it was as though she were invisible. She wished the same was true of his son. For Duncan Kirton’s eyes followed her as she moved around the room.

  ‘You will return to the firm?’

  There was a pause as Sandra put the bottle and two glasses on the low occasional table between the men. She didn’t look up as she didn’t want to meet Duncan Kirton’s dark eyes.

  ‘Father, I’ve told you before I’ve no interest in the firm. The short time I worked there was enough for me to realise office work isn’t for me. I don’t know yet what I want to do after the war.’

  ‘Being a solicitor is more than office work. You’re throwing a fine career away.’ There was irritation in Mr Kirton’s tone. ‘I didn’t have the luxury of going to university. I was articled. And worked in the firm’s office for seven years before passing the law society exam. While you could—’

  ‘You’ve told me that many times before, Father. I know I could be a junior partner but that’s not what I want for my life.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  Sandra was curious to hear more. She moved to the fire and, kneeling, she picked up a lump of coal from the scuttle with tongs and placed it on the embers. She heard a bottle opening and liquid being poured into a glass.

  ‘How’s Miriam doing?’ Duncan artfully changed the subject.<
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  ‘Very well, according to her last letter. She bemoans the fact she had to leave teaching when she was expecting young Arthur. She gets bored, apparently.’

  ‘What nonsense. A woman’s place is in the home.’

  Sandra rose from her knees and moved towards the door. The likes of her mother hadn’t had the luxury of staying at home. From what she knew of Miriam, Sandra was rooting for her. The lass had determination and made things happen. Perhaps it would pay if Sandra were more like Miriam Kirton.

  As she closed the front room door behind her, Sandra felt ashamed. Why didn’t she resolve to do something with her life? Because, the voice of conscience spoke in her head, she was a coward. Too scared to move out of the only security she’d known since Mam died, Sandra made no effort to change her life. Taking the flat iron from a kitchen cupboard, Sandra made a vow that things had to change.

  Later, the ironing done, the sheets still damp and hanging from the ceiling pulley, Sandra placed the hot iron on the trivet on the kitchen table to cool.

  Though it was past ten o’clock, she couldn’t go to bed because Mr Kirton and his son were still blethering in the front room where, no doubt, they’d polished off the dregs of the bottle of brandy. Sandra had been up since six and was now flagging, as wash day was always gruelling. She was exhausted and couldn’t help but feel resentful.

  She was just about to collapse on a kitchen chair when she heard voices in the passageway. The menfolk were off to bed. Sandra listened at the door.

  ‘Night, Father. I don’t expect I’ll make breakfast but I’ll see you at lunch.’

  ‘Good night, Duncan. Think on what I’ve said.’

  Sandra heard footsteps on the stairs. She hurried along the passageway and into the front room, where she checked the fireguard had been put up so that no sparks could set the house alight. Picking up the empty brandy bottle and two glasses from the occasional table, she took them into the tiny scullery. She rinsed the glasses and left them on the wooden drainer. Giving a massive yawn that nearly caused her jaw to lock, Sandra checked the doors were locked then climbed the stairs in the dark – she couldn’t risk waking Mrs Kirton and never hearing the end of it – hauling herself up by the polished banister rail. There were three flights up to the attic bedroom.