The War Girls

by Rosie James

  About the Author

  A dedicated reader and scribbler all her life, ROSIE JAMES completed her first novel (sadly unpublished) before reaching her teens.

  Significant success came much later, and over the last twelve years newspaper and magazine articles, short stories and romantic novels followed under her other pen name Susanne James.

  Rosie’s four family sagas were the next stage, the plots reflecting her fascination with the human condition – how different, yet how alike we all are. And in every story one thing is guaranteed – a happy ending.

  Also by Rosie James

  Letters to Alice

  The Long Road Ahead

  Lexi’s War

  Front Line Nurse

  (published as The Nurse’s Promise in the US)

  The War Girls

  ROSIE JAMES

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Rosie James 2021

  Rosie James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008386948

  Version: 2020-12-01

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Rosie James

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For my loyal readers who get in touch with a word of praise – the essential oxygen for writers.

  Chapter 1

  June 1939

  Abigail lay perfectly still, not wanting to disturb her daughter who was fast asleep beside her. It was not yet five o’clock, but pale sunlight was already getting stronger, infiltrating a gap between the flimsy, partly drawn curtains.

  Now that her plan was about to happen, Abigail felt a sense of strange weightlessness, as if she might float away with nothing to hang on to. But she had no doubts. She was nineteen years old. It was time to go.

  But first, she must inform her aunt of her plans and Abigail knew that the reaction would be scathing and critical. Because that was Aunt Edna’s way. It always had been.

  Their isolated cottage, named ‘Coopers’, was one of the most remote in the vicinity. Nestling deep in the Somerset valley, for many years the place had been run as a small holding, and after the death of their parents the young Edna and Arnold Wilson had carried on rearing the chickens and goats, growing the long field of vegetables and tending all the trees in their orchard. The soil was rich and provided a reasonable living so long as they worked from dawn to dusk and the same had been expected of Abigail. Long before she’d started school she’d washed the dishes – standing on a little stool to reach the sink – she’d fed the chickens, milked the goats, picked all the raspberries and strawberries, her aunt always criticising, never praising her.

  They had no near neighbours, no one ever came to visit, and their only form of transport was the pony and trap which Edna drove to take their produce to the village on market day. When Abigail started school, and for all the years that followed, she’d always walked the two-mile journey alone, and was never given a lift in the trap, even when it was cold and wet.

  Arnold had had a mild nature and had found it hard to stand up to his domineering sister, and although Abigail couldn’t remember her mother, she’d had a doting father for the few years fate had allowed. Sadly, owing to the effects of mustard gas while he’d served in the Great War, his lungs never recovered and in 1930, he’d passed away. Abigail had been ten years old.

  But she’d always known that Dada had loved her dearly, and with any money he’d managed to earn, and the little he’d saved, he’d bought her books and games. Each night before she went to sleep, they’d play cards or do a jigsaw and always told each other their secrets. And however late it was, Dada loved to hear her read, so that before she’d started at the village school, Abigail was almost fluent.

  And as well as all that, he’d taught her how to draw and paint, and she’d soon learned how to make just a few lines on a page turn into a picture you could recognise and bring to life. ‘Pictures tell stories, Abigail,’ he’d once said. ‘And practice makes perfect, so keep practising because you will find it gives you solace.’ Then he’d gone on to tell her that sometimes in the trenches during the war, he’d sit and draw things that he could see because it gave him peace. Other soldiers would make up poetry, or write long letters home, but he only wanted to draw. And, somehow, he’d been able to bring those pictures back with him and the little wad in the wax packet was among Abigail’s most treasured possessions.

  Now, very gently, she turned to gaze down at her daughter’s face, at the mass of dark ringlets tumbling on the pillow, at the long lashes resting on her cheeks, at the cherubic mouth, lips slightly parted as she breathed.

  Emily Grace, Abigail’s pride and joy, was just two and a half years old and thanks to Edna’s constant demands and expectations was already another member of Coopers’ hardworking team.

  And that was the reason they would soon be leaving.

  At last, Emily was about to be introduced to the world. She was not going to be hidden away like something to be ashamed of, as Edna had demanded when sixteen-year-old Abigail had confessed her state of health to her aunt. There had barely been a moment’s silence before the torrent of abuse had begun.

  ‘You vile, dirty creature,’ Edna had spat out. ‘How dare you bring shame on the house! Well, no one is ever going to know about this, do you hear me! It must be a secret, and eventually, when it gets older we’ll just say we found the child wandering and gave it a home … that’s what we’ll do! But before that, it must be kept hidden away from respectable eyes and ears! You are a sinner! You have
committed a grave sin, and God will not forgive you – and neither will I! Shame on you, and shame on the father of your bastard child!’

  And the following year on a cold February day, it was Edna who’d delivered the baby in the downstairs room on a rug in front of the fire with no one else there to witness the event. It had been an uncomplicated birth, and true to type, from the very first, Edna refused to show any interest in the child.

  The memory of that awful time caused the familiar lump to form in Abigail’s throat. With no one to turn to she’d been forced to obey her aunt, but things were about to change. She lowered her head to gently place her lips on Emily’s soft cheek.

  How could anyone not love her precious daughter, and how could a beautiful child’s existence be a shameful thing?

  July 1934

  It was Abigail’s very last day at school and although she would have loved to stay on longer, her aunt would have none of it. ‘You’ll learn far more working on the land than wasting any more time with books, and drawing stupid, pointless pictures like your father did,’ Edna had declared.

  But Abigail had had a very special reason for wanting to delay leaving school and that was because of Luke.

  Luke Jordan was the most handsome boy for miles around, and they’d sat next to each other in class for the last eighteen months.

  About two years earlier, the Jordan family had come to live at the auspicious Mulberry Court, an elegant house on the outskirts of the village. The couple who owned it decided to rent the place out while they went travelling, and it was not very long before Mr and Mrs Jordan and their son Luke took up temporary residence.

  And that was when Luke – a little older than Abigail – had started at the school and had been told to sit at the desk next to hers.

  So on that warm, sultry afternoon in late July when the school year had finally come to an end, Abigail checked her desk for the very last time, making sure that she’d packed all her own precious books in her bag, leaving nothing behind for the next person who would sit there in her place. She sighed, trying hard not to cry.

  Luke was standing there waiting for her, and as she came towards him, he automatically took her bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and together they left the building and began strolling away from the village.

  He knew she was upset, and he glanced down. ‘I’m going to walk you all the way back home this time, and you’re not going to stop me,’ he said softly.

  She shook her head briefly but didn’t reply, knowing that, as usual, they would part company at their own special, secret place down there by the river, tucked away from prying eyes, and a full mile from Coopers where strangers rarely set foot.

  As soon as they were alone he took her hand. ‘I know you’re fed up about leaving,’ he said, ‘and I’m really going to miss you, Abigail. But look, it won’t be that long before it’ll be my time to clear off, too, and I expect we’ll be going back to London to live. My college place awaits me, and after that, who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘University, I suppose. My father wants me to follow him into the Law, and I quite like the idea … if I’m clever enough. It might even be fun if I have to deal with thieves and murderers and horrible stuff!’

  Abigail clutched his hand more tightly. ‘Of course you’ll be clever enough, Luke,’ she said quietly. ‘From the moment you arrived you always did better than the rest of us, coming top in all the tests.’ She didn’t want to go on, knowing that today really was the parting of their ways. Sadly, before very long, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired Luke would be in London doing brilliant things and meeting interesting people – interesting, beautiful girls – and she would still be at Coopers, obeying Aunt Edna.

  Just then, as they crossed the small road which would lead them further into the countryside, a man on a bicycle appeared. It was a Wall’s ‘Stop me and buy one’ ice-cream man, and he got off the bike, waving his hand and grinning cheerfully.

  ‘Cornets? Wafers or tubs?’ he said. ‘Good job I saw you two a’fore I reach the village because this lot will soon be snapped up!’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Hot today, in’it?’

  Abigail shook her head. ‘Sorry – I haven’t got any money.’ But Luke stepped forward.

  ‘Two wafers, please,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for some change. Wafers were their favourite.

  The sudden distraction helped to break the downbeat feeling, and soon the pair were enjoying the deliciously cold ice cream as they strolled on.

  ‘Thanks, Luke, for this,’ Abigail said. ‘Sorry I didn’t have the cash to pay for myself.’ But she needn’t have apologised because he knew very well that she never had any money with her. She’d told him often enough that her aunt held the purse strings.

  Luke paused for a moment. ‘D’you know what I wish, Abigail?’ he said. ‘I wish that your chair could stay empty next year, rather than that anyone else should be sitting by me. Because we’ve got on really, really well. We’ve never fallen out, and we’ve always found something or other to laugh about. Well, we make each other laugh, don’t we?

  ‘I never expected to find anyone like you … a friend at school that I liked, I mean,’ he went on. ‘Of course, I knew I wasn’t going to be there for very long in any case, but it is nice to have someone who you really enjoy being with, isn’t it? Who you look forward to seeing each day.’

  Abigail nodded, but didn’t reply immediately. Everything he was saying was true. ‘I’ve never had a friend, Luke. I didn’t have any friends at all until you came.’

  He looked down at her, frowning. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s a fact. Even when I was in the Infants I always seemed to be by myself and was never asked to join in the games at playtime. And it got worse in the upper classes when the others could be really spiteful.’ She made a face. ‘It’s probably because of my aunt who everyone thinks is really a witch. And, to be fair, she does look a bit odd, always in her long black skirt, and that awful old apron she made out of a sack … and with her long hair tied back in a bow! I mean, honestly! Doesn’t she realise how silly that makes her look? When she comes on market day, yelling out all the stuff she’s got on the trap, everyone laughs at her. I’ve heard them enough times from the classroom – and when we’re in the playground. And some of the kids shout out and call her names.’

  Luke looked down at Abigail, slipping his arm around her waist. ‘Poor you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been fighting a lone battle, and I wish I’d been with you all the time. I wouldn’t have laughed at your aunt and I don’t know why anyone should be unkind to you just because of her.’

  ‘They probably think she’s taught me how to cast spells and turn people into spiders and frogs,’ Abigail said. Then she paused. ‘The thing is, it’s made me afraid that I will never have friends, that I don’t know how to make friends, or that no one will want to be friends with me,’ she added slowly.

  Luke pulled her in closer to him. ‘Of course, one day you will have friends, true friends, Abigail,’ he said softly. ‘Trust me – you will.’

  Neither spoke for a few moments after that as they walked on slowly, their steps taking them across the field and down to the river. To their special place, the spot they always stopped before Luke retraced his steps and Abigail walked the last mile home alone. They sat down on the soft turf and Luke lay right back, stretching his arms above his head.

  ‘I know you’re never allowed to come back to the village after school,’ he said, ‘but surely your aunt would allow it just this once … It is your last day, after all, and they’re showing Treasure Island at the WI hut tonight and tomorrow.’ He turned to look up at Abigail who was sitting with her head resting on her bent knees. ‘We’ve covered some of that book in English, haven’t we?’ he went on. ‘And it would be great to see it at the cinema.’

  Abigail didn’t look up. ‘It’s no good, Luke,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘You don’t know what she’s like. She’d make a terrible fuss if I even mentioned it.’

  Luke
frowned, irritated. ‘Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of your life, Abigail?’ he said. ‘Are you going to be stuck down at that place when you’re fifty or a hundred? Aren’t you ever going to make a run for it?’

  Now she did raise her head and look down at him. ‘I will escape one day, Luke,’ she said firmly. ‘When I’m grown up – when I’m no longer a child, I mean – the time will come when I will leave Coopers and never go there again.’

  He pulled her slowly down towards him and they stayed close together in silence for a few moments. Then he leaned over and placed his lips on hers, gently at first, then with increasing longing.

  And Abigail felt her whole body shiver with pleasure. Of course, they’d kissed many times as they’d walked home from school together, but it hadn’t been like this. This was something different and she liked it. She turned to face him properly and he stroked her hair, twisting a curl gently between his fingers.

  ‘You are beautiful, Abigail,’ he said quietly. ‘I am never going to meet anyone else who’s got your sweet green eyes … and hair that looks like a splash of sunshine around your shoulders.’

  ‘But you will, Luke,’ Abigail said quietly. ‘When you leave and go back to London and to college, beautiful girls will be falling at your feet. And you won’t ever think of me again.’

  She didn’t want to go on because she knew she was going to sob. Her own words were like knife wounds, hurting and stinging. Because it was terrible to think that they were never going to meet again and even more terrible that someone else would be special to Luke Jordan. Someone he would want to kiss like he’d just kissed her.

  In the languid summer heat, with just the occasional drone of a honey bee and the sound of the shallow river trickling at their feet, they lay in each other’s arms, neither wanting to say anything else to disturb the enchantment of these special moments. Moments that were slipping away from them and which they knew would never return.

  Then Luke raised himself on his elbow and gazed down into Abigail’s eyes which he could see were wet with tears. ‘I will never meet – or want – anyone but you, Abigail,’ he whispered. ‘And I will never love anyone else but you. I would never want to love anyone else. I give you my word.’