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

by Shirley Dickson

  She turned to see Mr Carlton astride his bike, back to exuding friendliness again. ‘You’re early. I didn’t expect you’d make—’ His eyes travelled to the telegram in her hand. His features softened. ‘You’ll want to know what that says. Follow me.’

  There were no preliminaries, just deep concern in his voice.

  He leant his bike against the red brick wall and, leading the way, took her around the side of the house through the wooden gate and into the back garden. He nodded to the seat by the table and they both sat down. She passed the telegram to him.

  He expression non-committal, he read the words out loud.

  Report just received through the international Red Cross. Your brother Sgt. Alfred Hudson has been reported as escaped from internment by the Swiss government. If further details or information are received you will be notified at once.

  Sandra’s body trembled with relief. Then fearing for his safety, anger erupted inside. ‘Stupid boy. Why didn’t he just stay put where he was safe?’

  ‘Maybe your brother felt it was his duty to try and get back to Britain.’

  Sandra’s anger subsided as quickly as it came. She crumpled and burst into tears. ‘Where can he be?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you.’ The curate’s tone was grave.

  Cycling back to the hostel, she made straight for the dormitory bedroom. Sandra didn’t want to be in company as the least sympathy would reduce her to a helpless wreck.

  Much later, Evelyn came into the room and found Sandra on her bed staring at the ceiling.

  ‘What did the telegram say?’ Evelyn’s tone was anxious.

  Sandra sat up in the bed. Telling her friend that Alf had escaped made the telegram seem real for the first time. She vented her frustration at her brother for leaving the relative safety of the Swiss ski resort where he’d been interned.

  Evelyn frowned in concentration. ‘I agree, but we don’t know the circumstances or how much being kept in captivity and out of the war affected Alf.’

  Mr Carlton had said more or less the same thing and Sandra knew both he and Evelyn had a point. Alf would think it was his patriotic duty to be free and continue to fight the aggressor.

  Sandra, frustrated at her ignorance, not knowing the layout of the countries involved, was forced to swallow her pride and ask, ‘How difficult would it be for Alf to make his way back to England?’

  Evelyn thought for a while, looking into space. ‘The two ways that come to mind are across Vichy France and over the Pyrenees into Spain, then into Gibraltar, which is British territory; or through France to the Channel coast and maybe smuggled in a boat to Britain.’ She climbed up to the top bunk and sat alongside Sandra. ‘I read about a soldier who escaped like that. The French resistance helped him.’ Her face creased in concern. ‘I must tell you, though, both ways have their dangers as they’re occupied by Germans.’

  Sandra went weak at the thought.

  The next morning, with clouds passing over the weak sun, Frieda caught up with Sandra as she pushed her bike into the farmyard.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep for worrying what the telegram said.’

  Sandra put the bike on its stand. Even in her distraught state she observed that Frieda’s cheeks were becoming fuller.

  ‘The Red Cross reported that Alf has escaped.’

  ‘Oh! Sandra, that is disturbing. But your brother is alive and there is hope. Aunty Doris told me last night that the news might not be bad and to look on the bright side.’

  Her emotions mixed, Sandra didn’t know what to say. Of course, she was thrilled Alf was alive, but she couldn’t breathe easy because he was still in mortal danger.

  ‘I told Mr Nichol about the telegram. He understood why you ran off.’

  Sandra gave a grateful nod. She hadn’t given her quick exit from the farm another thought. She thought of the Nichols, what they were going through, and felt shame. What they would give to have their son alive and escaping capture.

  She told Frieda, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t fully understand what you were going through before and talked a load of twaddle that was no help.’

  ‘I don’t understand? Twaddle?’

  ‘It means nonsense.’

  ‘You did help, you’ve always been there for me, especially when I’m down.’ Her pretty face became intense. ‘You were right. Our lives do mirror each other’s.’

  Their eyes met and there was confirmation in them, as if they both knew that their meeting was fated.

  The enormity of recent events caught up with Sandra. ‘Let’s promise we’ll never give up hope.’

  Frieda’s eyes misted and she nodded.

  ‘There’s enough of us here to complete the job,’ Jessie told Sandra that afternoon as she helped with threshing the corn. ‘You can finish in time for supper.’ She strode off.

  The only explanation Sandra could think of to cause the forewoman’s lenient attitude was that Mr Nichol had told Jessie about the telegram. That the farmer thought of her in a time when he was going through his own distress caused Sandra to well up.

  She wasn’t sure being alone was the wisest choice but neither did she relish the complication of working alongside a lot of people. Collecting her bicycle, she made off along the country lanes, the thought of food in her present state of mind loathsome.

  It was early evening, and if she were in a better frame of mind, Sandra could lose herself in inventing shapes out of the marshmallow clouds drifting across the sky – something she used to do with Alf when Mam had washing to collect and Sandra looked after her younger brother. The pair of them would lie in the backyard of their downstairs flat and stare up at the cloud-filled sky. ‘I can see an elephant,’ Alfie would exclaim, when no such thing was apparent.

  Her heart tugging, eyes scratchy, Sandra smiled at the long-forgotten memory. She needed to go on a long bike ride to tire herself out in order to get some sleep tonight.

  She hadn’t anywhere special in mind, or so she thought, until she was surprised to find herself pedalling along a single track road that led to Hallington, over five miles away.

  Why not? she thought. Seeing Brad was the lovely distraction she needed right now.

  29

  Dismounting her bicycle, Sandra peered through the two stone pillars that were the entrance to the hospital. There were few people sitting on the lawn this time and Sandra was hesitant to enter as she knew hospitals had strict rules about visiting.

  She scoured the people sitting out on the lawn. Then she saw someone with salt-and-pepper hair smoking a cigarette sitting on a basket chair.

  Brad did a double take when he saw her. Stubbing out his cigarette in an ash tray on the grass, he stood up and waved her over, the book he was reading falling from his lap.

  ‘Hey, Sandra!’ He beamed as she approached. ‘What are you doing here? Though I’m mighty pleased to see you.’

  ‘Am I intruding? Are you allowed visitors?’

  ‘You’re fine out here. Come, sit down.’ He fetched a vacant chair.

  She discovered she didn’t want sympathy. She wanted her time with Brad to continue to be magical, to pretend the outside world didn’t exist and she could be free of anxiety for a while.

  Brad leant forward. ‘Gee, Sandra. Am I allowed to know what’s up?’

  She sighed; so much for hiding her feelings. ‘I had a telegram yesterday. My brother Alf was interned in Switzerland but he’s escaped.’

  Brad slapped his good knee. ‘What a guy! I’d do the same.’ He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘But it sure is tough on you – you must be worried about him.’

  She didn’t feel it necessary to fill in any details.

  His gorgeous blue eyes held hers. ‘Thanks, funny face.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That it’s me you came to see.’

  He made her feel better already.

  A young nurse in uniform came then and handed him some pills and a glass of water. He swallowed the pills and gulped the water, returning the glass to t
he nurse with his broad smile.

  ‘Not long now, nurse, before you send me packing.’

  ‘Mr Carter, you’ve been a model patient.’ She gave him a lingering look and then hurried away.

  Brad pulled a decisive face. ‘How about we get out of here and take a bike ride. It’ll help you take your mind off your troubles for a bit.’

  ‘But I only—’

  ‘No buts, Sandra.’ His expression roguish, he told her, ‘I promise there won’t be any pools involved.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were following single track roads in the open countryside.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Brad called over his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Brad laughed, a deep pleasing sound. ‘Not that we’d find anywhere when there aren’t any signposts.’

  Signposts had been removed to confuse the enemy if there was an invasion.

  ‘You can’t forget it, can you, the war?’ Brad called. ‘I expect the English people have forgotten what normal life is like.’

  Normal life. Was there such a thing? Sandra didn’t know. If there was then she certainly had never had one. Choices were for the rich and not for the likes of her. But what was she complaining about? Sandra wouldn’t have life any other way. She had Alf and if he came home safely that’s all she asked – except, God willing, maybe marriage and babies. Money and riches didn’t count.

  They passed through villages, some only consisting of a few houses.

  ‘I’d at least want a pub.’ Brad slowed to let her catch up with him.

  ‘I prefer it like this with no bustle, plenty of greenery and—’

  ‘Village gossips.’ Brad laughed.

  They stopped to rest awhile on a grassy knoll off a narrow track. Brad stretched out, hands behind his head, looking up at the sky. Sandra joined him, sitting up with her arms circling her legs.

  ‘My body is telling me I shouldn’t be cycling up steep hills any more.’ Brad reached into his trouser pocket and wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorely out of condition.’

  ‘All this cycling and you’re still convalescing.’

  He sat up and searched her face. ‘The thing is I’m not officially an invalid any more. They’re gonna discharge me any day soon and then it’ll be back to duty.’

  Sandra’s pulse quickened. ‘At the aerodrome?’

  ‘Might be. I’m only up here on rest from ops.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what will happen next.’

  Sandra knew better than to ask any more questions.

  ‘Hey, Sandra, why so glum? You thinking of that brother of yours?’ Brad lifted her chin with his index finger and the kiss he gave her was tender.

  The tears came then, unbidden. Brad put an arm around her shoulders and cuddled her in, her head nestled against his chest, his heartbeat thumping through his shirt.

  They sat like that for a long while. Something relaxed in Sandra and the future didn’t seem so bleak.

  ‘I can always get a pass and hitch a ride from Cambridgeshire.’ Brad’s voice was hoarse.

  She turned up her face to look at him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  A car passed by in the road and hooted its horn. The ancient Austin moving away, Sandra wondered if it was someone who recognised her. Disentangling from Brad’s embrace, she wiped her eyes with her fingertips.

  ‘I think we should head back. It will start getting dark.’

  Cycling along the dark narrow roads by dimmed torchlight, they travelled via the reservoirs. Reaching higher ground and seeing the disturbing scene in the distance, they stopped and dismounted their bicycles. For way ahead in the darkness, searchlights criss-crossed in the sky over the Tyne showing anti-aircraft action.

  ‘Poor souls, someone’s in for it tonight.’ Sandra shivered. ‘It’s true you really do have to live for the moment.’

  Brad lowered his bike to the ground and moved over towards Sandra, taking her in his arms. His kiss this time was more demanding, his tongue pressing against her lips, parting them and exploring hers.

  Every nerve in her body tingling, Sandra wanted more.

  The sky had cleared now and the moon was shining an eerie light. Brad, cycling back to the hospital, wished he hadn’t listened to Sandra. Hell, he should have accompanied her back to the safety of the hostel, no matter what she said. It was his duty to do so. But Sandra sure was one independent dame.

  She’d insisted she would be fine and would only spend the night worrying if he made it back to the hospital or not. Damn it, he regretted his decision now. Furious with himself, he pedalled back to Hallington in record time.

  The thing was, Brad thought, as he pulled into the entrance of Hallington Hall, he felt bad he hadn’t been honest with Sandra. When they met at the dance, he never dreamed it would get this serious and there had been no need at first, but now he knew differently. Sandra had got under his skin and he’d never thought he’d feel like this about a woman again.

  They’d arranged to meet next Sunday and Brad promised himself he’d tell Sandra everything then.

  Though he wondered what her reaction would be, it was his duty to tell her the truth.

  30

  September 1943

  Sandra

  A week later, Sandra waited patiently at the end of the hostel path for Brad to arrive. She stood for half an hour and when Brad didn’t show, she didn’t know what to think. She ruled out the idea that he’d stood her up as their relationship had gone far beyond that kind of behaviour. But uncertainty filled her with self-doubt.

  Sandra knew her judgement of Brad was correct. He wasn’t the Jack-the-Lad type like Antonio – Brad was a true gentleman. And Sandra had fallen in love with him.

  Different scenarios flitted through her mind. Maybe he was ill or had been sent back to the aerodrome. If he was unable to get a pass he had no way of telling her.

  Sandra couldn’t possibly go back to the hostel without knowing. There was nothing else for it; she headed for Hallington.

  She left her bike by the entrance. Peering into the grounds, she searched the few invalids sitting there but there was no sign of Brad.

  Then she glimpsed him sitting with his back towards her. Above the back of the chair, she saw his salt-and-pepper hair and sloping shoulders. Her heart lifted in joy. Sandra made towards him. But the man, as she approached, swivelled his head and Sandra found herself looking into the face of a perfect stranger.

  ‘Can I help?’ A voice came from behind her.

  Sandra turned and looked at the young nurse she’d seen the last time she visited Brad.

  ‘I’m looking for the American, Mr Carter.’

  ‘I thought you might be. He was discharged on Thursday.’ She gave a regretful smile. ‘A nice gentleman. He’s missed. I’m glad he fully recovered from his accident.’

  ‘Did he go back to the aerodrome, d’you know?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Even if she did, Sandra felt the nurse wouldn’t say.

  ‘Sorry I can’t be of any more help.’ The nurse moved away.

  Sandra walked slowly back to the entrance, feeling flat and downhearted. There was a simple explanation, she told herself. She trusted Brad.

  Sandra had an overpowering need to escape everything and everyone – except, perhaps, for one person. But the curate was off-limits to her. The situation was awkward, she’d feel embarrassed confiding her fears, and she felt guilty for not having attended reading lessons recently. Mr Carlton had been her confidant and her supporter so often in recent times, but however much she wanted to, she couldn’t turn to him now.

  With heavy heart, she pedalled towards Leadburn.

  Entering the hostel, Sandra automatically checked for post. A letter addressed to her in Olive’s handwriting lay on the table. A warm glow of expectancy surged through her. Making her way to the bedroom and finding it empty, she sat on one of the bunk beds and read Olive’s letter as best as she could, slowly spelling out some words letter
by letter.

  Dear Sandra,

  Kenneth’s home from A-B-R-O-A-D because he’s I-N-J-U-R-E-D. He got shot in the S-P-L-E-E-N. Part of me is glad because he’s out of the war, H-O-P-E-F-U-L-L-Y till it’s ended. As Tommy says the lad’s done his bit.

  Sandra continued reading, getting the drift of the news of what was happening in South Shields in her friend’s colourful language.

  There hasn’t been A-N-O-T-H-E-R major raid since the one when you were here. Which was rotten luck. Still it got that L-A-S-S-I-E Frieda out of herself and talking. Tell her I’m asking about her.

  The letter went on to describe that Jerry planes had dropped metal containers scattering a load of pamphlets (this word took ages to understand) in the street and Sandra couldn’t understand what they said – something to do with lies about the amount of loss of British ships – then Sandra gave up trying.

  Look after yourself. I pray every night that you hear about the W-H-E-R-E-A-BO-U-T-S of that brother of yours soon.

  Your loving friend,

  Olive xx

  Sandra stared into space. Loneliness washed over her and she was overwhelmed with a longing to see Olive.

  31

  ‘I’m off to the pub tonight. How about you?’

  It was Saturday night and Evelyn was standing by Sandra’s bunk bed, removing metal curlers from her hair. She had washed it that morning and worn the curlers, covered with a turban-style headscarf, all day at work.

  ‘Who’s going?’ Sandra wanted to know.

  ‘Almost everyone’s gone home for the weekend so there’s only a handful of us left.’

  ‘You can count me in,’ Enid called from the other side of the room. ‘Ruby says she’s going too with Roy, and Harriet says two of them are going from their room. She says RAF boys are usually there on Saturday nights.’