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

by Shirley Dickson

  And if her family knew, could they ever forgive her?

  Sandra stared up at Gertie, whose wide-apart eyes looked back with a ponderous gaze of aversion. ‘I don’t like you either, especially after you spilt the milk and got me in trouble with the boss,’ Sandra told the cow.

  ‘You’ll be in trouble again, lassie,’ Mr Nichol’s voice piped up, ‘if you don’t get on with your work.’

  Crikey, Sandra hadn’t seen Mr Nichol in the byre.

  Bucket clasped between her knees, Sandra washed the teats with a cloth and then with a thumb and index finger – her other fingers around the teat – she gave a gentle but firm squeeze. She squirted the milk into the bucket and after a good ten minutes – it took the others less time than this but Sandra wasn’t that accomplished – with the bucket satisfactorily full, Sandra carefully removed it from beneath Gertie.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered, ‘for behaving this time.’

  For her trouble, Sandra got a painful swipe across her face from the swish of Gertie’s tail.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Frieda called from the next stall.

  Her cheek smarting, Sandra picked up the bucket and moved to where she could see Frieda. ‘Gertie’s just swiped me. But I’m fine.’

  ‘She certainly has it in for you.’ Frieda’s voice sounded restrained, as if something was troubling her.

  Sandra liked it best when her friend laughed – even if it was usually at her expense. For Frieda seldom looked carefree. She didn’t appear to have any other friends, Sandra thought, though she’d noticed that Frieda must have a soft spot for Antonio.

  Sandra made a mental note to do something fun together with Frieda. A trip to the pictures or some such thing – but when did they ever get the time?

  On Sunday when Sandra visited the church in the early afternoon, Mr Carlton was busying himself by the font at the back of the church. He greeted her in his usual kind and attentive way. He wore a dog collar, cassock with surplice and black scarf with a hood.

  ‘The Roberts family are celebrating the christening of baby Joseph this afternoon,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh, I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Take your time – everyone is welcome.’ He looked directly at her. ‘Apologies for taking so long but I’ve now had a word with Mr Fairweather about the matter of teaching you to read.’

  ‘Thank you. What did the vicar say?’

  ‘Mr Fairweather has agreed I may help in this matter but on one condition. That he is present.’

  Blimey, she thought, what did Mr Fairweather think they were going to get up to? She blushed.

  The curate quickly put in, ‘It’s only a matter of protocol.’

  The Roberts family, dressed in Sunday best attire, started entering the church.

  ‘Are you free tomorrow night?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Come to the vicarage at seven.’

  He moved away, smiling a courteous welcome to the new parents and baby Joseph as they entered the church.

  The next night after a bath and evening meal, Sandra headed in the direction of the church. The vicarage, with its peaked roof, porch and attic windows, was a big detached house only a few yards from the church’s side entrance.

  Sandra walked up the driveway and knocked at the door. She felt nervous but when Mr Carlton appeared his calm expression helped her relax.

  ‘Come in, it’s good to see you,’ he welcomed.

  She entered the hallway and followed the curate into the dining room. The room boasted an enormous speckled grey marble fireplace, with a wooden-framed mirror that reached to the corniced ceiling above it and reminded Sandra of the one at the Kirtons’ house. She shivered at the memory of that place.

  Mr Carlton’s easy-going manner put her at ease, but it wasn’t so when she met Mr Fairweather, who was inclined to be rather formal and abrupt.

  The vicar, sitting in a wing-backed leather chair, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, looked Sandra up and down.

  ‘Good evening,’ he greeted her, ‘if you’re staying please talk quietly as I can’t read a word if people chatter.’ Without another word he opened the book he held and started reading.

  Mr Carlton moved over to a large sideboard where a shelf was stacked with books. He pulled one out and brought it over to the table where Sandra sat and put it down before her. ‘It’s called Just William,’ he told her. ‘A favourite of mine when I was young.’

  The book’s pages were yellow with age, and on its cover was the picture of a boy who had a mischievous grin and wore a peaked cap. Sandra would have preferred a more girlish book but she was that grateful to the curate for taking the trouble to help her, she would have persevered to read the bus timetable if he’d requested it.

  The first lesson didn’t go well. Struggling because of her inadequacy to read even the simplest word, Sandra found it difficult to relax and concentrate. Aware that reading wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped, she vowed there was no way she would give in.

  The next Monday, determined to overcome the nagging doubts in her mind, Sandra made her way to the vicarage.

  As she passed the village store, Mr Curtis, who ran the shop, called, ‘How do, lass?’ He was cleaning the front shop window with a cloth. A slight man, with a perpetual worried-looking expression, he wore round spectacles, and a three-piece suit. ‘Been meaning to do this all day but the shop’s been heaving.’ He scratched his head. ‘You’re the lassie that sometimes helps Bob Nichol do the milk round.’

  ‘Yes, but only when Mr Nichol’s knee plays up.’

  Sandra’s job was to hop off the cart, run ahead and collect the next jug waiting on a front step, fill it from the churn, then return it to the step where the owner would come out and collect it.

  ‘Aye, that knee of Bob’s has never been right since the Great War. All that mud.’ Mr Curtis grimaced and his expression became bleak. ‘We were the lucky ones, Bob and I. Never thought I’d live to see another war, though.’

  Sandra had never imagined that Mr Curtis served in the Great War. She respected him and Mr Nichol all the more now.

  She had high regard for all the villagers. There were one or two of the lasses from the hostel who thought them small-minded busybodies with nothing else to do but wag tongues. But it couldn’t have been further from the truth, what with the war effort, the comforts fund, knitting for the boys at the front, organised dances in the village hall with the takings towards ‘packages from home’, salvage drives to save cardboard and rags – the list was endless. Many of the villagers had known each other since childhood, been to school together, attended each other’s weddings and family funerals – and they looked out for one another.

  Sandra’s thoughts turned to her brother and the pining to see Alfie welled within her and grew like a sickness.

  Tongue-tied as to what to say to Mr Curtis about surviving the Great War, she thought it best simply to pass the time of day. ‘The shop’s always heaving when I’m in,’ she agreed.

  Sandra sometimes walked to the store in her dinner hour and had a mooch around, not that there was much on the shelves to see.

  Mr Curtis warmed to this conversation; she could tell. ‘I tell you, lass, the sweetie jars are all but empty, these days kiddies mostly have to make do with liquorice. And since the Ministry of Food recommended households have an emergency supply of food, all the flour, treacle and condensed milk has flown off the shelves.’ He gave a beleaguered sigh and scratched his balding head. ‘We all just took food supplies for granted before the war.’

  Sandra didn’t divulge that never in her life before had she taken anything for granted.

  ‘Good day, Mr Curtis, I’ve got an appointment and must be off.’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be to the vicarage.’ Cloth in hand, he began polishing the window. ‘No doubt, the curate will be waiting for you.’

  Sandra, smiling, shook her head. It was difficult keeping a secret in the village.


  Sandra walked up the driveway and knocked on the vicarage door. Mr Carlton answered. She noticed his sandy hair had been neatly combed back and he wore slacks and a jersey over his dog collar.

  ‘Come in, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  He stood aside as she stepped into the large musty-smelling hallway – an odour Sandra would always associate now with the vicarage. She followed him into the dining room, wondering what his surprise could be.

  The vicar was in his usual worn wing-backed chair, a heavy tome in his hands.

  Mr Carlton told him, ‘It’s Miss Hudson, remember, Mr Fairweather? She called last week and I helped her with her studies.’

  ‘Ahh, yes, you read from that infernal Just William book. Never could get on with William Brown.’ He peered at Sandra. ‘My first book was the bible. I mastered reading it when I was six, so Mother told me.’

  Sandra guessed that Mr Fairweather had had a very different childhood from her.

  She decided she did like the vicar, though, if only because he was different from anyone she’d ever met before.

  ‘I hope you’ve been practising, Miss Hudson.’

  She smiled politely. ‘When I have the time.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The curate pulled out a chair from beneath the dining table, where condiments from the previous meal sat in the middle.

  ‘Our housekeeper, Mrs Bertram, tries to keep the vicar and me tidy but it’s a thankless task.’

  The curate moved over to a large sideboard where a shelf was stacked with books. He pulled one out and brought it over to the table and put it down before Sandra. She gazed at the front cover, the large title and diminutive people below in old-fashioned attire.

  ‘It’s called Gone with the Wind. I thought you’d have had enough of Just William.’ His tone was hushed as he glanced across, a conspiring expression on his face.

  ‘A real grown-up book.’ Sandra flicked through the book’s pages. She too whispered so as not to disturb Mr Fairweather, who was immersed in his book.

  ‘It’s my mother’s favourite. Her own copy, in fact.’

  ‘Then, why is it here?’

  Mr Carlton looked somewhat abashed. ‘I telephoned Mum and asked her advice about a suitable women’s novel to encourage you to read. She offered this.’ He gestured to the book. ‘My brother brought it with him when he visited for lunch last Friday.’

  Sandra was touched by his mam’s generosity – and by the effort Mr Carlton had gone to. ‘Please thank your mam for me.’

  Mr Carlton nodded.

  ‘Does your brother live far?’ she asked, more to fill the silence than any curiosity she had.

  ‘He lives near my parents in a village outside Durham.’

  The curate took the book and opened the first page. Sandra could tell by the tender look on his face that the book was special to him.

  ‘How long d’you think it will take me to read?’

  ‘I asked a teacher from the congregation and he thinks it would take an adult approximately six months.’

  Sandra was overcome by a mixture of happiness and frustration. Why hadn’t she learnt to read before? Because she hadn’t had any encouragement. Now at least she had Olive and the curate.

  ‘Let’s get started.’ He placed the book before her on the table.

  The curate pointed at simple words from the first page and, painstakingly, she pronounced each letter separately, then she combined each letter to sound a word.

  They carried on like this and after an hour and a half the curate called a halt.

  ‘You did remarkably well.’ He grinned and she saw a dimple in his right cheek. He placed the book back on the shelf. ‘How about tea and a biscuit? Homemade by Mrs Roberts as a thank you for the christening of her grandson.’

  A snore came from the direction of the fireside. The vicar sat with the book open on his lap, his head bent forward on his chest.

  Sandra felt it was indecent somehow to stare at him, a man of the cloth, while he slept. ‘I don’t want to keep you any longer.’

  ‘It isn’t a problem. My pastoral visits are done. I’m finished for the day.’

  ‘Then, tea would be lovely, thanks. Won’t we be disturbing Mr Fairweather?’ Sandra never, in these days of rationing, refused a cuppa. Besides, there was something she else she needed to ask the curate.

  Mr Carlton smiled affectionately at the older man. ‘I think not. He refuses to retire. The church is his life.’ He pulled a sorrowful face. ‘He sorely misses his wife.’

  Later, when he brought two cups of tea in and set one before Sandra, she said, ‘As you know I’m working at the Nichols’ farm, I work with Frieda from the Post Office. She told me she’s German.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s no secret. Mrs Leadbeater from the post office volunteered to foster Frieda some years ago. She is a German Jew, escaped to Britain just before the start of the war. She left family behind.’

  Sandra sipped her tea and let this sink in. It was as she thought, the poor lass had had to flee her homeland.

  She continued, ‘I worry about her because she’s so thin and I never see her eat.’

  ‘You’re very observant.’ Then he was silent and drank his tea. A muscle clenched in his jawline as he considered the matter, and Sandra could imagine him being unwavering in his conviction when the situation arose.

  ‘I can only tell you this: the child is a concern to her aunt. Mrs Leadbeater has spoken in the village of her concern. Like everyone who cares I’m baffled to know what can be done about Frieda. I’m telling you this in the hope you’re in a position to be of help to her.’

  ‘This is why I’ve brought the subject up. There’s nothing I’d like better. But I’ve never heard the like before.’ She put her china cup on the saucer and looked the curate in the eye. ‘I hoped you could advise me. Maybe Frieda could do with some fun to take her out of herself.’

  ‘Good idea. What kind of fun?’

  ‘That’s the problem; I can’t think of anything. Just the pictures in Hexham and that isn’t exactly riveting.’

  They sipped their tea in mutual bemusement.

  Mr Carlton spoke. ‘Any more letters from your brother?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no.’

  ‘Or that colourful friend of yours?’

  At his words, a marvellous idea struck Sandra. She now knew what to do about Frieda.

  She told the curate, who thought it a good idea and assured Sandra that he’d help in any way he could.

  14

  The curate saw Sandra off the premises with a look of regret, as if he’d enjoyed the evening and was sorry it was over.

  It was still light at this time of evening. Sandra thought it a treat. With the blackout, the winter months seemed to be lived continuously in the dark, but the start of the spring had brought with it a sense of hope for better things to come.

  Olive would be impressed with Sandra’s philosophical attitude these days. It was living in the country, with Mother Nature all around, that did it.

  Walking back to the hostel, she wondered how to approach Frieda with her idea, without scaring the lass off. After all, they hadn’t known each other that long and Sandra was some years older. Not that age mattered. Look at her and Olive; they’d clicked from the start and had been firm friends ever since. Then again, Olive was a one-off, with her kind heart and plain speaking, she got on with everyone.

  Instinct told Sandra that if anyone could help Frieda, it was Olive.

  Back at the hostel, Sandra opened the front door then went into the corridor. She stopped and listened. A piano played in the common room and voices sang – male voices too. She opened the door and a blast of jolly atmosphere hit Sandra.

  RAF men in uniform and lasses were grouped around the piano singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’. Sandra felt the urge to join in.

  Why not? Throwing off her inhibitions, she joined in and with gusto. The lass next to her linked arms and they swayed together as they
sang.

  Evelyn, standing behind the piano, waved at Sandra to come over. A sensation of belonging washed over her and she nodded. For an instant she thought of the young foreign girl who didn’t have any friends and Sandra’s kind heart was saddened. For everyone needed a friend to share the highs and lows of life. At least Frieda had found a caring home.

  Strains of ‘Home Sweet Home’ then filled the room. The hilarity stopped and the mood in the room became sombre.

  With a shrug of regret to the girl she’d linked arms with, Sandra moved over to where Evelyn and Enid were standing.

  Sandra asked, ‘What’s going on? Why are the RAF here?’

  ‘They sent a lorry from their camp to take us girls over but typically, Mrs Warden wouldn’t allow such a thing. She insisted the RAF had to come over here.’ She pulled a face.

  Enid chipped in, ‘She probably thinks we’ll get up to hanky-panky at the camp. And she wants to keep her beady eye on us. More’s the pity.’

  A rush of mortification overwhelmed Sandra. She’d had no dealings with the opposite sex. What would the two girls think if they knew? Sandra’s newfound assurance floundered.

  She realised the piano playing had stopped and the common room held an eerie silence. Sandra looked around and saw everyone had turned to look at the doorway. She did the same.

  Jessie stood there, an arm around Ruby’s shoulders. Ruby’s face was white and gaunt, her eyes like saucers, her body trembling.

  ‘The County organiser has been in touch. Ruby’s had some bad news,’ Jessie told them.

  ‘There’s been a raid at home,’ Ruby blurted, tears leaking from her eyes. ‘Our house took a direct hit. Me mam and dad’ve been killed.’ Her voice went squeaky. ‘There’s only a space left where our house was.’ She was reduced to shoulder-heaving sobs.