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

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll do basic training first. I’ll have to wait and see.’

  Sandra had struggled with her emotions but she didn’t want to let Alf down. ‘That’s wonderful, Alf. I’m so proud of you. So would Mam and Dad be.’

  Alf beamed. ‘I’ll miss you, Sandra.’ She felt quite emotional as he said her name. ‘Try and get letters written to me as often as you can. I’ll have this to remember you by.’ He held up the stainless-steel identity disc Dad had given him.

  ‘Big softie,’ Sandra said, her throat tightening, but she refused to cry.

  Sandra realised now it had been two years since that day. Alf had left when he was eighteen and joined the RAF as a Wireless Operator Air Gunner. He’d done his initial training on the west coast (Alf couldn’t say where because of censorship) and sent a black-and-white photograph of him standing proudly in his RAF uniform. After he became a qualified wireless operator, he started a course at gunners’ school. Finally, he was posted to his squadron somewhere down south where he began operational duties.

  In his recent letters Alf talked of his squadron and life at the base. He didn’t fool his sister because she knew missions were dangerous but he also didn’t want to worry her.

  Sandra was thrilled with all Alf had achieved and prayed at night for him to be kept safe.

  Her footsteps took her past the butcher’s where a notice was displayed in the window. She stopped and stared, wishing as always that she could read.

  ‘Hinny, you could do worse these days than working in a butcher’s,’ a diminutive woman with a wrinkled face and a turban-style headscarf told her.

  Sandra chose her words carefully. ‘That’s what the notice says.’

  ‘Aye, it does. Think how over the moon your mother would be if she didn’t have to stand in never-ending queues. ’Cos her daughter would get first dibs at any meat.’

  Chuckling to herself, the woman moved away.

  A bubble of excitement rose within Sandra. She didn’t have to be a housemaid any more. But her optimism deflated as quickly as it had arrived. How could she be a shop assistant when she couldn’t read? What if someone handed her a note or she had to read instructions? She was useless. All at once the worry of independence, of not managing, terrified Sandra.

  Surely there was something she could do with her life?

  5

  Mrs Goodwin’s two-bedroomed upstairs flat had a bay window and, at the entrance, a small forecourt garden bounded by a low stone wall. The wall’s handsome black railings had been carted off earlier in the war to be melted down to make weapons.

  Sandra turned the key in the lock and, pushing open the door, stepped inside the tiny lobby. Picking up the mail, Sandra opened the lobby door and climbed the stairs. Houses had their own smell and Sandra always loved the aroma that emanated from Mrs Goodwin’s home when she came to visit: furniture polish mingled with a cleaning agent, and a fruity smell Sandra associated with the cook’s famous fruit scones permeated the air.

  Although it felt odd being there without Mrs Goodwin, Sandra relaxed once inside the kitchen-cum-living room with its saggy but comfortable couch, fireside chair and polished dropleaf table. The room was homely and the only concession to the war was the bay window, elegantly draped with tied-back blackout curtains and the obligatory sticky tape attached to the panes.

  With one of Mrs Goodwin’s favourite sayings playing in her head – Home is where the heart is – Sandra put the suitcase on the floor with the mail on top, the required gas mask in its box alongside.

  She stepped into the minuscule scullery and, turning on the cold-water tap – the only tap – she filled the kettle. She found the box of matches on the drainer and lit the gas ring, putting the kettle on to boil.

  Back in the kitchen she removed her coat and hung it on a peg and then sat on the lumpy couch. Accustomed to the flat being filled with the sound of the Goodwins’ rowdy chatter, Sandra found the eerie silence uncanny. Mrs Goodwin had two children. Herbert, the eldest, whose wife was pregnant with their first bairn, lived two streets away. The youngest, Kenneth, had been conscripted last year to the horror of his mam.

  ‘He’s posted abroad somewhere in North Africa,’ Mrs Goodwin had whispered with big agonised eyes. Furtively, Cook had looked around the kitchen as if she expected to see a spy listening in. ‘Tommy and me looked Africa up on the map. Fancy Kenneth going all that way when the farthest he’s ever been is Whitley Bay on a Sunday School trip.’

  Sandra’s heart went out to Mrs Goodwin, who she knew lived in fear of the telegram laddie in the street.

  She’d once told her, ‘It’s murder when yi’ see the lad turn the corner on his bike and cycle up the street. Womenfolk, at their front doors, stop gossiping and watch as he rides by.’ She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. ‘Everybody holds their breath. But satisfaction is short-lived if the lad stops at some poor soul’s door.’ Cook shook her head in sorrow. ‘The howl as he hands over the telegram is unbearable. Out of respect everybody goes inside.’ Expression resolute, she continued, ‘But folk rally round if needs be. For folk are good at heart and I’ve seen it demonstrated many a time in this war.’

  Mrs Goodwin, with her kind and maternal heart, no doubt would be the first in the queue to help.

  Thoughts of her own mother came to Sandra’s mind. To remember hurt, but memories were all Sandra had and she could never forget Mam. The smile that lit up her weary face, the hugs she gave when Sandra felt Mam’s sticky-out bones through her clothes. Mam never sat down, hauling pails of steaming water from the boiler into the tub, pegging out other folk’s washing. She gave so much time to everybody else she never had any left for herself. There’d been a time when Sandra loathed the baby who’d killed Mam, then she’d felt bad because the poor mite didn’t get to have a life.

  What had Sandra done with her life? Dependant on security, she’d settled for serving other people – watching them live out their lives. That was not an option any more. Sandra had to carve a life out for herself now and the knowledge scared her.

  Her head aching with all these disturbing thoughts, Sandra felt woozy. She realised what the matter with her was; she was still suffering from last night’s events. But she couldn’t escape the fact she had some serious thinking to do, and choices to make.

  Being brought up in an orphanage – where decisions were made for you and you didn’t have to fend for yourself – didn’t help. Mam’s example came to mind. She’d taken in washing so the family would survive. She kept her bairns in clothes (albeit secondhand) and sometimes they didn’t have shoes but Mam always made sure there was food on the table. Mam never gave up. But the pitiful, unsure voice in Sandra’s head, ready with excuses, said, Mam wasn’t institutionalised.

  Sandra peered into the scullery where steam from the boiling kettle billowed in the confines of the room. She’d known the time was coming to have the courage to take control of her life, to find employment, a home of her own – to start living. Sandra shivered. Who knew, the next time a bomb dropped, Sandra mightn’t be so lucky.

  Sandra found the makings for a cup of Ovaltine in the scullery. Coming back into the kitchen, she noticed the two letters perched on the top of the suitcase. She bent to pick them up and, seeing the handwriting on the top one, her heart raced. She recognised Alf’s loopy scrawl. Placing her cup on the floor, she tore the envelope open. As she removed the sheet of paper, a photograph dropped out.

  She picked it up, and looked at Alf, handsome in his uniform. She thought, My little brother has become a man. She stared at the black-and-white photograph, taking in every detail of his features. His thin face, awkward smile that showed the gap between his upper two front teeth, the wistful gleam in his eye that had been there since he was a little boy. Sandra could identify with that loneliness; the feeling of wanting someone you could call your own.

  We have each other, she thought. An inescapable urge made her tell the photograph, I will forge a life of my own and make you pro
ud.

  The front door banged, giving Sandra a jolt, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Goodwin, cheeks plump and rosy, bustled through the kitchen doorway.

  ‘I don’t know, that woman gets worse.’ She shrugged out of her coat. ‘Her ladyship only wants me to be doin’ your job as well as me own so she won’t have to pay anyone else. If she thinks I’m going to shift the muck after last night’s raid, the woman can think again.’ Taking out her hat pin, she removed her black felt hat. ‘After the way she treated you, lass, I’ve a mind to hand in me notice. These days, there’s plenty of work for women.’ Sandra’s ears pricked at this. ‘Tommy’s always telling us the Kirtons don’t appreciate their staff and I should go somewhere where they do.’

  Flouncing her dark brown hair with her fingertips, she glanced at Sandra. ‘Eee! Sorry. Here’s me tellin’ you me woes when you’re in such a pickle.’ She glanced at the letter in Sandra’s hand. ‘Is that a letter from your Alf?’

  Sandra nodded.

  Taking the single sheet of paper out of Sandra’s hand, Mrs Goodwin removed her spectacles from her handbag and placed them on her nose. ‘This is just what you need to cheer you up. Let’s see what it says.’ She plonked on the couch beside Sandra.

  Dearest Sandra,

  I do mean to write more often but, to be honest, not much goes on here except much of the same and I don’t wish to bore you to death.

  I’m here in the mess with Harry Stokes (who I’ve previously told you about) and the rest of the crew, who are mostly playing cards and darts or just staring, like me, out of the window at planes landing and taking off and the personnel painting the underside of aircraft black in readiness for operations at night.

  An aircraft is being loaded with fuel which makes me think there is a trip on for tonight and I’m wondering if I’ll be on it. Dear girl, I know you’ll get down in the dumps when you think of me on a mission but remember that it’s what I like doing best and that I wanted to join in the fight for my country.

  This was unusual for him as Alf rarely mentioned missions. He concluded by asking about her work at the Kirton household and how her war work was going.

  Then Mrs Goodwin, eyes shining, looked up at Sandra. ‘Listen to this.’

  Sandra, good news. I’ve just heard that I’m due rest from ops. Dare we hope this is so. And if it happens I’ll hitch a ride to see you in the north-east. I’ll let you know if I have further news.

  Meanwhile, affectionately, Alf

  Excitement surged through Sandra at the thought of seeing her brother again.

  Mrs Goodwin folded the letter and handed it to Sandra. ‘Aw! That’ll be lovely. Just the tonic you need. There’ll always be a bed for your brother here.’ Laughing, she added, ‘Even if it is in the makeshift bed in the attic.’

  Her eyes darted to the other envelope perched on the suitcase. ‘That might be from Kenneth.’ She picked up the letter and read the writing. ‘It is.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I don’t care what’s he’s got to say’ – her voice cracked – ‘as long as he writes. It means…’ Her chin wobbled and she couldn’t go on.

  Sandra understood.

  ‘I’ll make you a cuppa while you read it.’ Sandra moved through to the scullery and boiled the kettle for a fresh brew.

  When she returned, cup in hand, Mrs Goodwin waved the letter and shook her head. ‘Twerp that me son is… tells me nothing except how he’s starved and what good mates he has and he’s got a bloody corn on his big toe. I ask yi’?’ She raised her eyes skyward. Then she beamed with pleasure. ‘But he does send his love to the family and two lovely kisses for me and his dad.’ She placed the precious letter on the mantelpiece. Sandra knew it would be read many times.

  Mrs Goodwin took the cup of tea and settled back on the couch. ‘Now, lass, what are wi’ going to do about you? You can stop in our Kenneth’s room as long as you like. And don’t worry, you’ll get a job in no time.’

  ‘Mrs Goodwin… I’ve decided I’m not going to be in service any more. I want to do war work.’

  The idea had struck Sandra when she heard what Alf had said in his letter. That he wanted to fight for his country. Sandra knew that was what she wanted: to do her bit too.

  ‘First of all, pet, now you’re shot of that dratted place, you can call me Olive. Secondly, good for you, lass. What d’yi’ want to do? Factory… join the forces?’

  For the second time that day excitement surged through Sandra.

  That evening, after a tea of thick slices of fried Spam and chips, as she sat around the put-you-up table with the Goodwins, Sandra couldn’t believe she’d only been there half a day. The Goodwins treated her like family.

  Olive told her, ‘I’ll air that bed and put Kenneth’s stone hot water bottle in it.’

  Her husband Tommy stood up. ‘I’ll go and see if I’ve got a light bulb. That last one in the room has had its day.’ A skinny man, all bones, Tommy had a face creased with worry lines and large hands that were calloused.

  ‘He’s got a bit of a bad chest,’ Olive told Sandra, concern in her eyes, ‘I’m convinced it’s with workin’ all weathers at the docks.’

  ‘Take no notice of her.’ Tommy turned and looked at his wife with adoration in his eyes. ‘It’s only a bit of a cold.’

  Later, their son Herbert and his wife popped in on their way home from the early showing at the pictures.

  ‘You want to be careful going out in the black of night in your condition,’ Olive told her daughter-in-law as she sat in the fireside chair, knitting needles clicking as she made what looked like baby’s mittens.

  Sitting the other side of the fire on a dining chair, Tommy told her, ‘Olive, there’s a full moon to see by.’ He pulled a long face. ‘I only hope it doesn’t mean Jerry will give us a pasting tonight.’

  They all went silent for a time, gazing into the fire. Then Olive told the others about Sandra’s predicament and how she was now looking for employment.

  ‘Leave the lass be.’ Tommy put a pipe in his mouth and, lighting the tobacco with a match, clouds of smoke belched from the bowl. His face contorting in anxiety, he told Sandra, ‘From what I hear about your job, likely you’re due a rest. Take all the time you want, it’s fine by us, isn’t it, Olive?

  Their kindness was too much for Sandra to bear and she felt quite teary. But she didn’t want to be a burden.

  Polly, sitting next to Herbert on the couch, her hands resting on the enormous mound of her abdomen, turned towards Sandra. ‘If you’re thinking of work you should watch the feature on the Pathé news. It’s about Land Girls doing their bit. It was interesting, wasn’t it, Herbert?’

  Sandra pricked up her ears.

  Polly turned to her husband, adding, ‘Didn’t the lasses look as if they were having a ball, laughing and joking as they went about their work in the fields? The newsreader said they were thoroughly modern women doing their bit to feed the nation.’

  Herbert butted in. ‘It’s not my cup of tea being way out in the middle of nowhere.’

  His wife gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘Take no notice of him. He’s a grouch because he starts the six till two shift tomorrow morning at the mine.’

  Herbert checked the clock on the mantlepiece. ‘Aye, and it’s time we made tracks so I can get some kip.’ He stood up and addressed Sandra. ‘I suppose you could do worse. I mean think of all the grub, with all the hens and pigs and the like.’

  Olive stood up and cuffed the side of her son’s head. ‘Away with you. Always thinkin’ of your belly.’

  Later that night as Sandra stood in Kenneth’s bedroom, littered with paraphernalia from when he was a lad – toy aeroplanes that hung from the ceiling, his football card collection – she felt disorientated. So much had changed in the last twenty-four hours.

  She unpacked on the single bed and she gazed at her pitiful few belongings: a Sunday best frock that had survived the blast, knickers, vest, pair of lisle stockings, a greyish bra, gloves, cardigan and alarm clock.
An inkling of an idea formed in her mind. But then doubts came crowding in. The plan would mean responsibility. Sandra likely would foul up and folk would see her for the fool she was. As negative thoughts scuttled her mind, a sound from outside made her freeze.

  The wail of the air raid siren.

  Someone banged on the door. Tommy shouted, ‘Get yerself in the shelter.’

  Sandra hurried from the bedroom and made for the makeshift shelter in the washhouse in the yard. Cold and dank, the shelter had no heating and only benches against the walls to sit on. Light was provided by the paraffin-smelling hurricane lamp that stood on a card table in the corner.

  ‘Here, put this on.’ Olive bundled a blanket into Sandra’s arms, then sat beside her, placing a flask and plate of homemade biscuits between them.

  ‘Ginger snaps,’ Olive told her. She turned to her husband next to her. ‘Have you brought the playing cards?’

  ‘Aye,’ Tommy’s croaky voice replied. ‘By God, I’m getting weary of this malarkey. But who am I to grumble? I could be dead.’

  As bombers droned in the distance and blasts from bombs could be heard as they exploded, Sandra felt nervy and jumpy. It was too soon after escaping death the night before. The events replayed in her mind: Duncan’s hairy arms chafing her skin, the smell of alcohol on his panting breath, the noise of exploding bombs. Her thoughts grappled with the enormity of what could have been.

  Rather than be overcome by these thoughts, the knowledge that she’d escaped both being raped or killed made a new-found optimism wash over her. She realised that dwelling on what had happened with Duncan Kirton would mean that he’d won, after all. From now on she would banish him from her mind. She had a future, more than could be said for a lot of unfortunates in this war.

  She made up her mind. Tomorrow she would go to the early showing at the cinema and see for herself the Pathé news about Land Girls.