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

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kurt is always in my thoughts too. What became of him? My biggest fear is he got caught and sent away.’ She groaned. ‘It’s the not knowing that is the worst. I cope by imagining them all in our apartment in Berlin getting on with their lives. Of course, that isn’t so. Or else, why don’t they answer my letters?’

  The unspoken words that Frieda might be an orphan too hung in the air. She looked a bleak figure sitting on the upturned pail.

  When she spoke, Sandra’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘D’you know, we’re two of a kind. Our lives mirror each other.’

  ‘I have never thought of that. But it is true.’

  Sandra, unable to bear the lost look in Frieda’s eyes, changed the subject. ‘Honestly, you don’t need to answer this if you don’t want to. But what’s this with Antonio?’

  Frieda’s face changed, became startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I see the way you look at him.’

  Frieda’s head lowered and she looked up nervously. ‘I sometimes meet with him in the hay barn when everyone is eating at dinner time. It is not what you think. Antonio is a gentleman.’

  ‘Frieda, tread carefully. He’s older and might take advantage. Besides, he’s a prisoner and I’ve heard they make all kinds of promises.’

  ‘Alf might be a prisoner of war too. He fought for his country. Neither of them had a choice.’ In the silence that followed, Frieda looked shocked at her outburst. ‘I’m sorry, Sandra. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘You’re angry.’ Sandra was reminded of when she did the very same thing. ‘You’ve every right to be. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘But I want you to know my business.’

  Her words eased the tension and they both looked at one another as if wondering how they’d got to this point.

  Sandra knew there’d be no reasoning with Frieda. She was young and impressionable. And who was Sandra to judge? She’d never had a romantic relationship – more’s the pity – and didn’t know what she was talking about.

  Sandra wondered about the relationship between Antonio and Frieda. But it would seem just a flirtation on Antonio’s part. Where was the harm? Let Frieda have fun while she was young. An infatuation didn’t do anyone any harm and it was all part of the growing-up process.

  If this were true then why did a sense of unease grip Sandra?

  Frieda was lost in thought as she made her way into the hay barn to meet with Antonio at dinner break. She felt bad about the way she’d reacted towards Sandra as she knew she only had her best interests at heart. But Sandra was wrong about Antonio. Yes, he had enlisted in the Italian army, but that was before the war started, when he was a labourer.

  He’d told Frieda days before when they were in the hay loft, ‘You understand I never wanted to follow Mussolini.’ All he’d done was basic training apparently. When the war started, his inexperienced and untrained platoon was captured in Libya at their very first battle. Antonio was sent to the POW camp in Northumberland. He finished in his appealing broken Italian, ‘The little man, he no has a choice – he no start the war but he has to fight, yes?’

  Frieda had nodded her agreement because Antonio was wise and made so much sense. If only Sandra could listen to his views, she would change her mind.

  Frieda would never forget that day because, as they lay on the fragrant hay, Antonio had confessed he loved her. Then he’d leant forward and kissed her and Frieda didn’t resist. The sweet kiss transported her to a happier place; it was wonderful to forget her troubles, to just be for a while.

  When they pulled apart, Antonio asked her, ‘You no tell me how old you are? I think you look seventeen.’ He gave an odd, cautious kind of look.

  He thinks I’m older.

  She had been worried he thought her a kid as most people took her for younger than her years. She hadn’t contradicted him.

  ‘One day when this war is over, I take you back to Italy. We marry and have babies together.’

  Frieda had laughed, shocked but delighted that he would say such a thing. He made life sound so simple and perhaps it was. Mama, Papa and Kurt were so far away and maybe there were good reasons for them not to be in touch. When the war was over, her parents would search for her.

  All she knew, she thought as she now approached the hay barn, was that Antonio made her happy and complete and she wanted to be perfect for him. And she found whatever it was that stopped her from eating left her alone for a while when they were together.

  And once Sandra got to know Antonio properly, and saw how charming he was, she wouldn’t help but like him.

  Antonio was already in the hay barn when she arrived and Frieda was shocked to see him smoking a cigarette. He dropped it on the floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot.

  ‘Amore mio,’ he whispered as he came closer.

  She didn’t understand the words but, by the burning desire in his eyes, she knew Antonio was telling her he loved her.

  He came towards her and took her in his arms. While they kissed, his hand slid into the open neck of the white blouse she was wearing and fondled her breast beneath her bra. Frieda felt uncomfortable when he touched places she considered private but she was too afraid to say because she would die if he stopped loving her.

  She pressed his shoulders and he pulled away. She saw the deep need in his eyes. Frieda knew forevermore the aromatic smell of hay would remind her of Antonio.

  Two days later was a hot and sunny day and with her afternoon milking done, Sandra was lending the gang a hand in the field. Everyone was expected to work late to get the hay in while the weather was dry and the longer summer days meant hours of toil.

  Suddenly, a thin, reedy voice could be heard from the vicinity of the farmhouse. Looking in that direction, Sandra could see Mr Nichol with someone at his side. Her spirits took a nosedive. Peggy Teasdale, the post lady.

  Mr Nichol shouted again, ‘Saaandra!’

  Her legs went to jelly.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Frieda linked arms with her. Side by side, they walked over the field to the front gate.

  Peggy wordlessly handed Sandra the telegram.

  Trance-like, she passed the yellow envelope to Frieda. She had to know one way or another. Sandra held her breath.

  Frieda opened the telegram and read.

  Report just received through the international Red Cross… your brother Sgt. Alfred Hudson has been interned by the Swiss government. If further details or information are received you will be notified at once.

  No deep regret or killed. Sandra sagged.

  Then, euphoria changed to doubt as her natural anxiety for her brother’s welfare took over. Was he injured? What did ‘interned’ mean, exactly? Furious at her ignorance, she wondered who she could ask.

  And then she thought of her friend, Mr Carlton.

  To keep her mind occupied, she’d worked the rest of the day, but asked Mr Nichol if she could leave at eight o’clock.

  No one answered at the vicarage when she knocked. Standing at the door, wondering what to do, Sandra noticed young folk emerging from the church doorway. She made her way over.

  ‘Excuse me. D’you know where the curate is?’ she asked Bobby Teasdale, who delivered the post when his mam was unwell.

  ‘Inside.’ He jerked his head towards the church. ‘We’ve been takin’ communion lessons.’

  By the look on Bobby’s face Sandra guessed he was forced to go by his mam, a keen churchgoer.

  Sandra found the curate sitting in the front pew, sifting through papers. When he turned at her footsteps, he jumped up, scattering the papers on the stone floor. She helped him pick them up. They stood facing each other.

  ‘Miss Hudson, I… What are you… Is something wrong?’

  ‘It’s Alf. He’s been interned in a Swiss camp. What does that mean exactly? Aren’t they a neutral country?’

  She realised she must look a fright: her hair blown all over, mucky trousers; she hadn’t had a
bath. There were no niceties, she’d just charged in and bombarded him with questions.

  He didn’t flinch but looked hard at her, deep concern in his eyes. He thought for a while.

  ‘I’m not an authority on such matters, but to answer your questions’ – his soft voice and tranquil manner were a tonic to her barbed nerves – ‘Switzerland is a neutral county, though I’ve heard tell they’ve stopped American and British aeroplanes flying over their airspace. I would think your brother’s bomber came down somewhere over or around the Swiss border. Far better internment in a neutral country, than be a prisoner of war in Germany. He may well be interned for the duration of the war.’

  And he’ll be safe, Sandra thought.

  ‘Try not to worry too much. I think everything considered, he’s a lucky man. I don’t know the formalities, but the Swiss will abide by the Geneva Convention and Alf will be allowed to send letters home.’

  Three days later, a postcard arrived. Sandra gave it to Frieda to read.

  Hi Sis,

  I’m safe and well. Plane went down the favourable side of Swiss border. Being transported to be interred in ski resort!! Supposed to stay till war ends. Will send letter. Loving brother Alf

  Sandra burst into tears with relief.

  22

  July 1943

  July brought the news that the Allies had taken the island of Sicily.

  ‘Aunty Doris is positive that we have tipped the scales towards the end of the war,’ Frieda told Sandra as the pair of them sat eating their dinner beneath the shade of the oak tree to escape the hazy and muggy heat. The weather had been roasting for the past few days. Hot and sweaty working in the heat, Sandra kept her dungarees rolled up to her knees, her shirtsleeves up to her elbows.

  As she watched Frieda taking bites of her food, Sandra realised how far she had come with her eating problem. While she by no means ate with a hearty appetite and still was wary of consuming anything sweet or stodgy, Frieda ate enough to sustain her health and she appeared to have put on some weight – something Sandra wouldn’t risk telling her as it might tip her over the edge to starving herself again.

  Sandra still brought in titbits of food for Frieda to build her confidence on her road to normal eating. Today’s offering was a piece of rhubarb pie from last night’s supper at the hostel. Frieda had eaten a tiny portion but left the crusty edges of pastry.

  Sandra also encouraged Frieda to speak about Antonio so she could keep an eye on things, despite having sworn not to get involved. Frieda was vulnerable and Sandra worried about her. She felt the kind of protectiveness an older sister might have for a younger sibling.

  ‘These crushes are quite normal at her age,’ Evelyn had told Sandra, when she’d asked advice on the matter. She trusted Evelyn and knew she wouldn’t repeat the confidence to anyone. ‘Would you believe I had a crush on the arithmetic master at school.’ She laughed. ‘Believe me, this infatuation will pass. Some servicemen and prisoners never miss a chance with a bit of flirting. As long as there’s no hanky-panky involved she’ll be fine apart, perhaps, from a broken heart. That goes with the territory, I’m afraid, and only helps to make us fussier and stronger. I should know.’

  The talk had left Sandra worrying about what Frieda got up to in her dinner time. So it had come as a great relief when the Ministry offices in Hexham assigned Antonio to the Robsons’ farm for a spell. But it hadn’t stopped the lovebirds. According to Frieda, who met up with him one night, his job was to dig drains in the fields where he lived. He was allowed out at night within the limit of five miles and he and Frieda had cycled to the pictures in Hexham.

  If her aunt knew about Antonio, Frieda didn’t say, but Sandra didn’t think that was the case.

  She didn’t know what she thought about Antonio’s apparent freedom to come and go. She wondered if Alf got the same kind of leniency. Frieda, lying down now beneath the rippling leaves of the oak tree, told Sandra, ‘Antonio doesn’t listen to war news and so he won’t know Sicily’s been taken by the allies.’ She sat up and hugged her legs. ‘He doesn’t get involved if there isn’t anything he can do. I agree with him, why worry if there is no need?’

  ‘Are you seeing him again?’ Sandra kept her voice light as if it were just a question, not an inquisition.

  Frieda’s face lit up. ‘We’re going for a bike ride when I finish work on Sunday.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t mind. As long I’m with Antonio.’

  One summer’s evening at the end of July, Mr Carlton and Sandra were sitting at the dining room table as Sandra read passages from Gone with the Wind. The sash window was open and the curtains billowed in the soft breeze. Mr Fairweather was outside, sitting in a basket chair with a newspaper over his face.

  Sandra, head bent as she stumbled over a long word, sensed Mr Carlton’s pride.

  When, finally, the passage came to an end, Mr Carlton exclaimed, ‘Well done. You should be proud of yourself. You’ve done remarkably well. You can read short sentences without any help.’

  ‘Oh, I love reading about Scarlett O’Hara,’ Sandra enthused, ‘she is such a feisty character. Ashley is weak. I do so hope Scarlett and Rhett Butler get together.’

  ‘Ahem,’ Mr Carlton interrupted.

  Sandra, carried away by the story, felt embarrassed. But was there a gleam of amusement in Mr Carlton’s eye?

  ‘Mum was right. She assured me you’d fall in love with the story and it would encourage you to read.’

  Sandra was flattered he’d told his mum about her. ‘Please, thank your mam for me.’

  ‘It won’t be for a time. I don’t get to see my parents as often as I’d like.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity.’

  ‘I try to make it down once in a while. The last time… was for Mum’s birthday. I went by train.’

  ‘Yes, getting petrol can be a bother, I’ve heard.’ She hated these formal talks and felt daft as she didn’t know if the curate even owned a car. But it was nice seeing him talk freely about his family. He looked rather awkward when he spoke about personal things, but Sandra felt she glimpsed the lovely private man he was; a man whose family was important to him. He lost his reserve and looked happy – and handsome. Caught off guard by the thought, she blushed.

  There was a lull in the conversation. Sandra found she didn’t want to leave quite yet.

  She ventured, ‘Do your parents come by train when they visit?’ As he hesitated, she thought she’d gone too far prying into his private life. She babbled, ‘There are so many servicemen travelling these days, it’s probably difficult for them finding a seat in a compartment.’

  He thought for a moment then made a decision. ‘It’s not that… Dad had a stroke some time ago and is wheelchair-bound.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t be. The old man is perfectly happy sitting with the bible on his lap making notes, the newspaper at the ready… Mum fussing and supplying copious cups of tea. They have lots of company, both friends and from the clergy.’ Surprisingly, he went on to tell her a little about his background, how he and his brother had the happiest upbringing. They’d lived in various vicarages, ‘with huge gardens with trees for us boys to climb against our parents’ wishes.’

  ‘What a wonderful childhood. If I ever have kids that’s what I’d want for them too.’

  In the silence Sandra was embarrassed that she’d spoken her thoughts out aloud.

  Mr Carlton gazed wonderingly at her. ‘What a lovely thing to say.’

  Then it was his turn to look abashed. ‘Forgive me, I forget myself, you want to be away.’ The clerical mask was in place again.

  Sandra found herself thinking about Alf, and how he was faring being cooped up in a foreign country. Every day since the postcard she’d searched the table for another letter from Alf, growing increasingly anxious when one didn’t arrive. Her brother had been in touch, she told herself, and she’d just have to be patient; as the curate had said they didn’t know the formalities
. To be truthful, part of her was glad Alf was interned in Switzerland out of harm’s way till the end of the war. But she knew her brother would be like a caged animal and being held in captivity would remind him of the orphanage.

  She felt the urge to say something to Mr Carlton before she lost the chance. ‘I still haven’t heard from my brother.’

  The curate’s brow furrowed. ‘That must be difficult. But you’ve told me that he’s been in touch. That will have to suffice for now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I know I’m impatient.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable.’ His neck went crimson for some reason.

  There came an unsettling moment when neither of them appeared to know what to say.

  She stood up ready to leave. ‘Again, thank you.’

  Outside the window, Mr Fairweather removed the paper from his face.

  ‘Till next time.’ Mr Carlton smiled. ‘Soon you will be proficient and won’t need any more reading lessons.’

  ‘You’ll be glad to be rid of me.’

  She realised her jocularity was to hide the disappointment at his statement.

  Matthew watched Miss Hudson make her way down the vicarage path, then closed the door.

  Perfectly understandable, foolish man. What a perfectly starchy thing to say to a young lady. She thought he wanted rid of her, when nothing could be further from the truth. Monday nights had become the highlight of his week. She kept cropping up in his mind and he couldn’t concentrate. Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. All he knew was his step was lighter since the day he’d met Miss Hudson.

  This wasn’t the time for him to get involved with someone. Besides, as an ordained priest what did he know about women? When he’d been accepted for ordination training, he’d been thrilled to go to theological college. Above all else, Matthew wanted to please his parents, in particular his father whom he admired. Now he must see where his calling led him.

  He could end up anywhere and it wouldn’t be fair to Miss Hudson… Sandra. Not that she’d be interested in a formal, stuffed shirt such as him. What was he thinking? Sandra showed no interest in him that way. Besides, he would need the bishop’s permission to court Miss Hudson…