by Molly Green
‘Oh, how delighful to see you all,’ she cooed, her arms outstretched.
‘Oh, Maman, you look so well,’ Ronnie said, kissing her. ‘And we’re dying to see—’
Maman gave a theatrical gesture towards the window.
The three sisters peered over the edge of the cot at the sleeping baby.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Suzanne said, stroking the fuzzy cheek. ‘Blonde, like her papa.’
‘And like you, Suzanne,’ Pierre said, beaming proudly.
‘But she has my eyes,’ Simone said, smiling at her three daughters. ‘Just like violet pansies – that is what Pierre always calls mine.’ She sent Pierre a tender look and he smiled back.
‘Have you named her yet?’ Raine asked.
‘Yes.’ Simone threw them a challenging look. ‘I wanted Victorine because France has victory at last, but I know you will make it short to Vicky. I will not have that. So she is to be called Denise. Your Papa has chosen it. A good French name, and impossible to shorten.’
The baby opened her eyes and stared, unfocused, at Ronnie.
‘Welcome to the family, little Denny,’ she said, turning to her mother with a mischievous grin.
‘I think you are teasing, Véronique,’ Simone said. ‘And you know I do not like to be teased.’
Raine and Suzanne chuckled.
‘Sorry, Maman, but you know us – we can’t help it,’ Ronnie said, joining in the laughter.
‘I gave you all—’
‘Beautiful French names that you refuse to use,’ the three sisters mimicked in perfect harmony.
‘Denny,’ Pierre said, his brow creased in thought. ‘You know, Simone, darling, I rather like it.’ He sent his wife an apologetic look.
‘That’s who she’ll be to the three of us, anyway,’ Ronnie said, laughing at Maman’s fierce expression. ‘It’ll probably even get shortened to Den!’
There was a sudden crackle from the speaker.
Denise lay like an angel in her cot, oblivious to the pent-up anticipation in the ward.
‘This is London. The Prime Minister, the Right Honourable Winston Churchill.’
A few seconds pause. And then the great man spoke:
‘Yesterday morning at 2.41 a.m. at General Eisenhower’s Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and of Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Forces, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command.’
Ronnie grabbed Suzanne’s hand, squeezing it. She noticed Suzanne had her other hand gripped around Raine’s arm. Pierre was sitting as close as he possibly could to his wife and Ronnie saw him quickly brush her cheek with the tips of his fingers.
Everyone in the ward was silent as the Prime Minister continued until he came to what Ronnie considered the most important bit.
‘The German war is therefore at an end.’
Ronnie gasped with delight and was about to shout out when she caught Sister’s eye. Sister put a warning finger to her lips and Ronnie nodded. By this time everyone in the ward was smiling but still hanging on to Mr Churchill’s every word.
‘We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing, but let us not forget for a moment the toils and efforts that lie ahead.’
He went on to remind everyone that the war was still going on in Japan, but by now the whole ward – visitors and patients – were cheering and the local church bells pealed out for the first time in six years, the sound drifting through the open hospital windows. At the sudden strange noise Denise opened her rosebud mouth and howled. Pierre picked her up from the cot, a tender expression on his face as he gazed at his tiny flaxen-haired daughter, her mouth still open as though she wasn’t quite sure whether to continue crying or not now she was safe in the arms of her papa.
‘Time to go so that Mrs Brunelle can get her rest,’ Sister said, coming over and firmly taking the baby from Pierre, and holding her close to her starched apron. She glanced at Denise after settling her back in her cot, then turned to Simone. ‘She’s timed her birth perfectly.’
‘The fourth victorious sister,’ Simone said with a gracious smile. ‘And you, my girls, must go before this Sister requests you to leave, but I will ask her if Pierre may stay with me a little longer.’
‘Just a little longer,’ Sister repeated, smiling at the beaming parents.
‘Come on,’ Ronnie said, jumping up and giving their mother a kiss, with Raine and Suzanne following suit. ‘The other victory sisters know when they’re not wanted. Besides, they’ve got a street party to go to in Downe.’
Acknowledgements
Anyone who has read one or more of my previous novels will know that I do most of my writing in a cabin in the garden. But they may not know this is a mere substitute for the railway carriage I really wanted. That is, until my husband, Edward, put his foot down, warning me it would cost at least £200,000 just to crane it into the garden, not to mention the restoration it would surely need! Cheap at half the price, I told him, much to his chagrin.
But I do love my cabin. It’s been my refuge when nursing a very poorly husband to grab the opportunity to sit at my desk for an hour or two and write. There I could tap out a world I was in control of, in the company of Dougie, my white rescued cat, who often curls up in my black linen Chopin bag which is supposed to hold my recycling paper.
Just before lockdown my sister, Carole, and I went to the Canal Museum near King’s Cross. It’s a small museum but packed with fascinating memorabilia. Best of all it contains three-quarters of a vintage narrow boat decorated with roses and castles painted by the boat people. Inside, the theme is continued in the decorated wall plates and jugs and water cans, mixed in with old framed photographs of the family. We were allowed to walk through the boat and pull down the folding bed, peer behind the pull-down table to the small larder cupboard, and admire the range which they would clean with black lead paste. Bad enough that these cramped living quarters were home to two to three boatwomen such as the trainees in my novel, but the ‘real’ boaters regularly had large families of six or even more kiddies (as they called them) in this tiny space. On top of that they had to carry the cargo that more often than not added to the never-ending work of keeping the boats clean. How the mothers in those days kept such spic-and-span boats, as well as their children, is beyond my imagination.
So how to do justice to all these hardworking, often very young girls and boatwomen, and the original boat people, in a subject I knew virtually nothing about? I began with the books on the reading list, but there were plenty of questions still unanswered.
A stroke of luck came from an introduction by Jo Bell, a poet who wrote the Foreword in the classic book Narrow Boat by L. T. C. Rolt, to a teacher and historian, James Tidy. Amazed, I learnt that he lives on a vintage narrow boat that was actually used by some of the trainee girls and women in the war! I commissioned him to read the novel and look out for any ‘howlers’ I may have made in my clumsy efforts to portray the workings of these boats and the details of the route the trainees took. He also answered various questions and sent me hundreds of black-and-white photographs of the girls in various stages of carrying and off-loading the cargo along the Grand Union Canal, and three more very helpful books! His input was invaluable.
As usual, I’m grateful to all those who were involved in the creation of this novel. First, as always, is Heather Holden Brown of HHB Agency. She’s not only a dream agent, keeping both the editor and this author very happy, but has become a dear friend over these past years. Then there’s my publishers, Avon, an imprint of HarperCollins, who won Imprint of the Year 2020. I’m not surprised, the way the team works so brilliantly on my behalf. I’m so lucky to have my hugely talented editor, Katie Loughnane, who unerringly knows my characters (almost!) as well as I do; Sabah Khan heads PR, and consistently gets me into national newspapers and radio shows; Ellie Pilcher, Marketing Manage
r, works effectively in social media; and those in the graphic art department design the superb covers for my books. I thank you all.
I make up the fourth member in two outstanding writing groups. The Diamonds are: Terri Fleming, Sue Mackender and Joanne Walsh, and the Vestas are: Gail Aldwin, Suzanne Goldring and Carol McGrath. We’re all published authors in different genres and are second to none at brainstorming as well as bringing our special skills to the table. We don’t hold back on critiquing each other’s chapters and I believe our novels are the better for it. And I haven’t even mentioned the laughs …
I’m so fortunate to have my own critique writing partner in the form of Alison Morton, thriller novelist with the successful and long-running alternate history ‘Roma Nova’ series. We both love reading one another’s novels in the early drafts, though the genres couldn’t be more opposite. But it works like magic, as our red pens are poised to pounce on any mistakes. Just as importantly, we always feel proud of each other’s successes.
Sadly, by the time I had completed the first draft of this novel my late husband, Edward Stanton, was too ill to read it. He’s always been marvellous at spotting errors, particularly with anything mechanical or military, not to mention those pesky anachronisms. I hope I’ve managed to uphold the high standard you always set me, Edward.
Reading List
The Amateur Boatwomen by Eily Gayford
Troubled Waters by Margaret Cornish
Idle Women by Susan Woolfitt
Maidens’ Trip by Emma Smith
Narrow Boat by L.T.C. Rolt
Ramlin Rose: The Boatwoman’s Story by Sheila Stewart
Grand Union Canal: From Brentford to Braunston by Ian J. Wilson
Waterways Guide 1: Grand Union, Oxford & the South East (pub. HarperCollins)
The Water Gipsies by A. P. Herbert (a novel pub. by Methuen’s Sixpennies in 1939)
Keep Reading …
Now you’ve finished Ronnie’s story, why not go back to the beginning to read about her sister, Raine?
Click below to find out more …
UK readers
US readers
CA readers
When World War II breaks out, Suzanne’s dream of attending the Royal Academy of Music crumbles …
Click below to find out more …
UK readers
US readers
CA readers
If you love the Victory Sisters series, why not curl up with another heart-warming story from Molly Green?
Click below to find out more …
UK readers
US readers
CA readers
War rages on, but the women and children of Liverpool’s Dr Barnardo’s Home cannot give up hope …
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UK readers
US readers
CA readers
Even when all seems lost at Dr Barnardo’s orphanage, there is always a glimmer of hope to be found …
Click below to find out more …
UK readers
US readers
CA readers
About the Author
MOLLY GREEN has travelled the world, unpacking her suitcase in a score of countries. On returning to England, Molly decided to pursue her life-long passion for writing. She now writes in a cabin in her garden on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells, Kent, ably assisted by her white rescued cat, Dougie.
Also by Molly Green
The Dr Barnardo’s Orphanage series:
An Orphan in the Snow
An Orphan’s War
An Orphan’s Wish
The Victory Sisters series:
A Sister’s Courage
A Sister’s Song
About the Publisher
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