by Molly Green
A SISTER’S WAR
Molly Green
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Copyright © Molly Green 2021
Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photographs © CollaborationJS (figure), Shutterstock.com (background)
Molly Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of 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 ebook 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008332501
Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008332518
Version: 2021-02-09
Dedication
To my dear sister, Carole Ann, who for two pins would live on a narrow boat!
To all the women and girls who worked on the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company Ltd during the Second World War, taking their narrowboats filled with cargo such as wool, steel, coal, timber, cement, sand, iron, shells for explosives, and even dates used for sauce (!) on scores of trips from London to Birmingham and back.
In 1948 they were finally acknowledged for their valuable contribution in the war and given badges with the initials IW (Inland Waterways), and thereafter jokingly became known as the Idle Women. Nothing could be further from the truth!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgements
Reading List
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Molly Green
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Downe, near Bromley, Kent
October 1943
The lights dimmed in the cinema until the auditorium went dark. The chattering audience stopped with one accord. All Ronnie could see was the swirl of cigarette smoke and the silhouette of the heads and women’s hats in the rows in front of her. She felt her friend, Lois, give her a nudge.
‘Not long now ’til the film.’ Lois was breathless with excitement.
‘It’s Pathé News first,’ Ronnie whispered.
‘That’s the bit I hate. It’s always more bad news. I just came to see the main film.’ Lois pulled a small bag of boiled sweets from her handbag and handed one to Ronnie. ‘Joan Crawford is my favourite. She always plays good parts – makes mincemeat of the men.’ She gave a giggle.
‘Shhhh!’ A man with a large head, and boxer’s shoulders, who was sitting in front of them, half turned, waving his hand towards her. ‘Some of us would like to hear the news.’
Ronnie recoiled. ‘It hasn’t actually started yet,’ she said, feeling a rise of annoyance.
‘This is Pathé News.’ The newsreader’s voice cut across any further argument. ‘Today, the 13th October, Italy has declared war on Nazi Germany, just one month after Italy surrendered to the Allies.’
The audience sent up a roar of approval and several people clapped, Ronnie and Lois amongst them.
‘Best news we’ve heard for ages,’ Lois said, turning to Ronnie. The light from the cinema screen showed her eyes dancing with excitement.
The newsreader continued a few moments longer and then switched subjects.
‘Women and girls are taking over more and more of the men’s jobs. Here are some of the girls in the Land Army doing a marvellous job keeping food on our tables … just look at this young lady actually driving a tractor!’ The newsreader’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘These girls are certainly wearing the trousers.’
There were a few male chuckles. One man in the audience called out, ‘Not in my house, they’re not.’ More laughter.
Ronnie watched the film intently. Three Land Girls dressed in jodhpurs, their jumpers tucked into their waists and belted, were working on a farm. Ronnie immediately slumped back in her seat. She’d applied three weeks ago to join the Land Army – actually, three weeks and two days to be precise – convinced they would grab her. Several posters she’d seen pinned up in the library and the village hall hoping to persuade girls to join, especially one colourful poster, had really caught her eye. It showed a smiling Land Girl with dark curly hair, a little longer but not unlike her own, her hand resting on a horse’s neck, and an amiable pipe-smoking farmer looking on. The message along the top of the poster read: ‘We could do with thousands more like you …’ and underneath the picture was a yellow banner with black writing: Join the Women’s Land Army.
She’d dashed home, breathless with excitement that her chance had come, and filled in the application form without telling her mother. What would have been the point? Ronnie had mentioned it a couple of times to her sisters and although Raine and Suzy had cautioned her about the hard, monotonous work, which didn’t worry Ronnie one jot, Maman had shot her idea down in flames. She couldn’t bear the idea that one of her daughters had dirty, broken fingernails and wore men’s clothes while working on the vegetable plot at home, let alone milking cows and mucking out sheds for some unknown farmer.
Every morning when she’d heard Micky, the postboy, rattle the letterbox, Ronnie had flown downstairs, followed by an exuberant Rusty barking his head off. This morning she’d been certain that today would be the day she’d hear. But there had been nothing … until the second post at noon.
‘Chérie, you have a letter in the front room on the mantelpiece,’ Maman had said, leaning over the banister when Ronnie had come in from tending the vegetable plot. ‘It came a few
minutes ago. I will be down in one minute so do not open it until I am there with you. We will read it together.’
Ronnie’s heart gave a flip. It must be about the Land Army. And Maman was trying to take control as usual. Ronnie set her jaw. She was almost seventeen – perfectly old enough to open her own letters. She’d wanted to be indoors before the noon post came for this very reason but Rusty had begged her to take him for a walk, the way he’d looked at her with his warm, brown, beseeching eyes.
Please don’t come downstairs before I’ve read it on my own, Maman.
‘Come on, Rusty. I’ll allow you to read it with me.’
Rusty followed her into the front room, his claws making a clicking sound on the hall lino.
Ronnie grabbed the long envelope tucked behind one of a pair of silver candlesticks, a remnant of the old life they’d had before Dad had lost a lot of money and gone into debt. Probably one of the reasons why he’d died so suddenly at only sixty, she thought grimly. He’d always tried to keep up with Maman’s demands and standards. Ronnie’s heart squeezed at the thought of her dearest dad and the stress it must have given him when he realised what he’d brought upon the family.
All this was racing through her head as she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet. She glanced at the heading. She was right. It was from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries; the Land Army came under their umbrella. Heart beating in her ears she read:
Dear Miss Linfoot,
We thank you for your application form to join the Land Army but regret—
Ronnie broke off reading. Regret? Surely … Biting her lip and willing herself to go on, she continued:
… but regret we must on this occasion turn down your application. Our minimum age is seventeen and a half, and you are not yet seventeen. This is because the work is often heavy, having been carried out by the men before war was declared. However, we are encouraged by your enthusiasm and hope that in a year’s time you will apply again, whereupon we would expect you to be successful.
Thank you for your interest.
Yours sincerely,
Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries
Ronnie was disgusted to see that the person who’d written the letter hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign it.
‘You are reading your letter without me,’ Maman said, sweeping into the room in her usual style of a Thirties’ actress. ‘Did you not hear me?’ For once, she didn’t ask Ronnie to remove ‘that dog’.
Ronnie shoved the letter back into the envelope, her eyes stinging with anger. The war would be over by the time she reapplied.
‘Yes, I heard you – but, Maman, it’s addressed to me. I should be allowed to open my own post.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘No one important.’
‘Let me look.’ Simone stretched her hand out.
Ronnie was on the brink of refusing to give it to her. But what difference did it make? She hadn’t been offered an interview and she’d already told her mother she wasn’t going back to school. She wasn’t brainy like Raine, or musical like Suzy, and didn’t see the need for two more years of mathematics and history and French and all the other subjects she wasn’t good at. But she always got top marks in biology and natural history. She knew she had a way with animals and was happiest when outdoors. The Land Army would have given her all those things. Now her hopes were in pieces.
Sulkily, she handed over the envelope.
Simone pursed her lips as she read the letter. Then she looked up. Ronnie noticed a gleam in her mother’s eyes.
‘Chérie, I do not like that you go behind my back to write to these people. We have already discussed this. Winter will come soon and I will not have my daughter digging up turnips. What would people say? They will think we are in poverty. What would your father say if he was here? He would be angry that I allow such a thing. So I am very happy they will not take you. This will be the end of the conversation, even when you are of the right age. You will find a worthwhile job or I will send you back to school.’
Simone had torn the letter into pieces and thrown them on the unlit fire.
Still bristling with Maman’s unfair dismissal of the Land Army earlier that day, Ronnie was brought back to Pathé News with the newsreader’s latest clip.
‘Yes, women and girls are working in the munitions factories … Here they are, cheerfully changing into boiler suits and rubber shoes, wearing gloves and masks as protection against poison and dangerous fumes from the explosive material … Here’s one of the girls filling the exploder and finishing the shells. If it wasn’t for the fair sex performing what was once considered men’s work, there wouldn’t be enough ammunition to send to our boys in the fields. We couldn’t carry on the fight. That’s how important this work is.’
I’d hate it. Ronnie pulled a face in the darkness. Having to repeat the same movements hour after hour, day after day, cooped up in a room with constant clanging and clattering above the chatter of the girls. It was a wonder they weren’t all deafened with the row. Besides, it was obviously dangerous to be amongst all those poisonous fumes, mask or no mask. But I do admire them, she thought. They’re getting on with it – and doing their bit for the war effort. And that’s what I need to get cracking with.
‘… and women and girls are even working on the canals, some of them as young as seventeen, taking critical supplies from London to Birmingham and back again on the Grand Union Canal. They work together in threes, from all walks of life. Here’s one group in charge of a seventy-foot canal boat with a second boat being towed behind, both of them carrying the cargo. It’s a hard, dirty, backbreaking job but these girls are putting their backs into it and look fit and healthy working outside all day …’
Ronnie sat bolt upright, staring hard at the screen. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but they were tying two boats together, working as a team. One of them, a pretty girl with a cap perched on her blonde curls, looked up and smiled and waved at the camera. The good thing was that they didn’t appear to be wearing any kind of uniform, Ronnie noticed, although they all wore trousers. How sensible.
She was barely aware of the other news. And when the film, Above Suspicion – a wartime drama that hadn’t really appealed, but Lois had gone on and on about it until she’d finally agreed to go with her – eventually came on, Ronnie scarcely paid any attention. Watching a far-fetched story about a honeymooning couple in Europe being asked to spy on the Nazis for the British intelligence, and Joan Crawford, the bride, looking ever more glamorous in every scene, didn’t ring true. It all looked so artificial against the horrors she’d seen so many times on Pathé News of the brave boys, many whose lives were being snuffed out before they’d even properly begun to live, or so horribly injured and disfigured they’d never lead a normal life again. Co-star, heartthrob Fred MacMurray, didn’t accelerate Ronnie’s heartbeat one scrap. No, what was making her heart thump so hard she felt it might burst through her chest was the thought of doing something worthwhile – something she’d be good at.
She’d never been on a boat, but what did that matter? She knew as sure as Lois was sitting next to her that working on the canals would not only be exciting but would be her contribution. She grew more and more convinced as she continued to let the sound of the film roll over her. If she was being grand, she’d say it was her destiny.
But how would she talk Maman round to giving her permission?
Chapter Two
‘I wanted to see the Joan Crawford film,’ were Maman’s first words to greet Ronnie when she arrived home. ‘I would have come with you if it was not for this cold.’ She sniffed and blew her nose. ‘Will you make your maman a cup of cocoa, chérie, and then you must tell me all about it. I want to hear the clothes she wore.’ She gave a violent sneeze.
Ronnie inwardly groaned. She busied herself in the kitchen, spooning out the cocoa in two cups, waiting for the milk to boil, all the while wondering how to approach her mother about working on the c
anals. Maman would think it even worse than joining the Land Army. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she couldn’t stop the milk from suddenly bubbling up and frothing over the side of the saucepan.
‘Damn,’ she said aloud, turning off the gas and grabbing a dishcloth to wipe up the liquid. She’d used up all the milk and half of it had spilled over. Thank goodness they could rely on the milkman doing his early morning rounds. No matter how much her mother grumbled about the English insisting on tea first thing, she would be most upset if Ronnie didn’t bring her a cup. Sighing, she boiled the kettle, then poured the remains of the milk over the two cups and topped them up with boiling water. She stirred half a teaspoon of sugar into her mother’s cup, then found two mismatching saucers. The cups didn’t quite fit into the shallow indents but they would have to do.
‘Véronique, where is my cocoa?’
Her mother’s plaintive voice floated along the hallway, as Ronnie took the hot drinks into the front room.
‘What has taken you so long?’ Simone demanded, taking the cup and saucer from her. The cup wobbled and overturned, spilling the contents over her dressing gown. She screamed and shot up, letting both the cup and saucer fall to the rug.
‘Oh, Maman, I’m sorry. I’ll get a cloth,’ Ronnie said and rushed to the kitchen for a towel and a bowl of cold water, all the time swearing under her breath, as she doubled back.
‘Here, Maman, let me mop it up. Did it burn your legs?’
‘Of course it did, child. It was boiling hot.’
‘Let me soak them with cold water. That’s what we were told in St John’s Ambulance. It will stop it blistering.’
‘I will bathe myself upstairs,’ her mother said. ‘You know, Véronique, I worry about you. This would not have happened if you took the trouble to keep to the standard I have always set.’ She stooped to pick up the offending cup and saucer. ‘Look’ – she tapped the saucer – ‘this is not the correct one for this cup so it did not fit securely. That is why there was an accident. As if my cold is not enough to cope with—’
‘Maman, I’m truly sorry,’ Ronnie cut in. ‘Please go and soak the tops of your legs with cold water.’
