Letters to Alice

by Rosie James

  Dear Alice, dreadful news was told to me today…

  Bristol, 1941: Alice Watts leaves the shell-shocked city for her new life as a Land Girl on Home Farm. It’s completely different from her quiet old world, but she’s determined to do her part. And the back-breaking work is made bearable with the help from her two new friends - bold, outspoken Fay and quiet, guarded Evie - and the letters that arrive from her childhood friend, Sam Carmichael…

  To Alice, Sam was always more than just a friend, but as the son of her wealthy employer, she never dared dream he could be more… But at least every letter brings reassurance that he’s still alive and fighting on the frontline… Because it’s when all goes quiet on the letter front that nothing seems certain and it’s a reminder of how life – and hearts – are so fragile.

  A tale of true courage and the power of sheer determination, this un-put-downable WWII set saga is filled with warmth, humour and heart-wrenching emotion.

  Perfect for fans of Nadine Dorries, Katie Flynn and Dilly Court.

  Letters to Alice

  Rosie James

  www.CarinaUK.com

  Born in Bristol of Welsh parentage, ROSIE JAMES has always been a compulsive writer, her early enthusiasm kept alive by winning the occasional childhood literary prize, and much later by seeing her articles and short stories published. She is a trained singer, and as a lyric coloratura soprano, her roles include many in opera, operetta and oratorio, her church choir music taking her to many parts of Europe. She enjoys theatre, eating out with friends, and she entertains regularly at home – slightly hindered by her new, very lively puppy, who insists on digging up all her plants and chasing birds, squirrels, and neighbours’ cats. She has three grown-up children, and six grandchildren who regularly visit with their parents and who still expect to play paper and pencil games after the meal. Rosie lives in Somerset.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  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

  Endpages

  Copyright

  In grateful memory of my parents, from whom I inherited the love of music and the written word

  Chapter One

  24th April 1941 London

  Dear Alice

  This is the first moment that I have been given any time off to drop you a line. I know things have been dreadful for everyone in Bristol, too, recently, and I’ve been hoping and praying that you are safe. Please write soon, and tell me that you are. I’m hoping that no news is good news.

  It would be difficult for me to describe the scene here after the bombings this month. Amazingly, many of us – and many buildings – seem to be still in one piece, but the devastation is horrifying, and I have seen some terrible things. Every hospital has become an emergency centre (St. Thomas’s was hit) and no one has been allowed off duty. Even the most junior of us have been expected to rise to all occasions, and of course we have. We are all doing our best not to let the side down.

  It has been a privilege to witness the bravery and courage of the victims, Alice – one elderly gentleman I was looking after, and who was close to death, still managed to smile at me as I clasped his hand and held him at the end. The look we exchanged as he finally slipped away will stay in my memory for ever.

  No one ever grumbles, but just gets on with everything in a matter-of-fact way. We haven’t had that much sleep lately and meal times are brief, but the determination and camaraderie have helped to keep us going.

  After last September’s outrageous attack on the city, and now this latest one, let’s hope that Hitler will give us a rest for a bit. (I sometimes wish I was in uniform somewhere, and doing something positive to help bring this ghastly business to an end.)

  I hope, I really hope, that we can all arrange to get together soon.

  Always and ever – Sam.

  PS. Sorry to spill all that out on you, Alice, but one of the reasons for writing is that, a couple of times, I have asked myself whether I have chosen the right profession after all. Because handling unrecognizable bodies, and trying to comfort the frantic and bereaved, has been a nightmarish revelation, and there was one moment when I almost lost control and broke down. (Though thank goodness I managed to hold it together!) Such emotional weakness in anyone hoping to be a surgeon is not acceptable, but I had to tell someone, and you are the only person I want to share this with. I already feel some relief in confessing it.

  Please write and tell me that you don’t think me a total coward. S.

  PPS. This is not something I would want to worry my parents about. S.

  Dear Samuel

  Thank you for your letter. Yes, we have had a terrifying time here, too, but have survived to face another day, another year…or years, perhaps. Mrs. Hammond and I have spent several nights in the under-stairs cupboard together, emerging quite safe – if a little stiff – in the morning!

  And like you, I have witnessed amazing bravery and goodwill everywhere. People are determined not to give up, but to carry on as cheerfully as possible. A mostly-demolished shop in the city had a notice outside saying “More open than usual.” That gave everyone a laugh. The office where I am employed is still intact and open for business. Not even a single day off for me – worse luck!

  It would be lovely to see everyone again soon, I agree. But we are all so spread out now. However, I am sure your mother would manage to arrange something!

  All my best wishes, Sam. Alice.

  PS And you are not a coward. I don’t know any cowards. Don’t call yourself stupid names! A

  Bristol 1941

  The bus was crowded, almost full, the hot August sunshine streaming through the grubby windows making Alice lift her hand to shade her eyes.

  As they’d all got on, she’d made her way to the back where there were three vacant seats all in a row, next to the emergency exit. She’d left her suitcase next to the driver, though in the limited space available some other passengers had to have theirs alongside them in the aisle, or held awkwardly between their feet.

  Alice had brought very little with her, mainly because her uniform took up so much space. But she’d put in a couple of dresses and a cardigan, another pair of sandals, and two spare sets of underwear. She imagined there would be laundry facilities. In her wash bag was a new flannel, a bar of soap, a tube of toothpaste, and her toothbrush. And along with six pretty hankies which Gloria had given her as a sort of going-away present was her indispensable pot of Pond’s cold cream. The handbag on her lap held some money, a strip of Aspros, a comb, her powder compact and a Tangee lipstick. At the bottom of her case, beneath everything else, were two new exercise books, some pencils, and the wallet containing her letters and her precious fountain pen.

  She looked around, waiting for the bus to fill up. She couldn’t help feeling slightly apprehensive about what lay ahead…it was going to be a completely new experience, that was obvio
us – but then she, along with everyone else was having to adapt to new experiences – some of which were highly dangerous – and, unfortunately, often fatal. They were living in troubled times, and there was nothing left but to accept what was happening and just get on with it. Her mother had told her often enough that that was what life was all about. That every generation had its ups and downs. And anyway, what she and her fellow passengers were facing was not going to be dangerous…just very different, that’s all. In fact, where they were all going would be blissfully free from death and destruction. It would be calm and peaceful. A sort of respite from the perpetual fear of sirens announcing an air raid, from the spectacle of searchlights criss-crossing the night skies…

  Everyone else around her was about her own age, Alice guessed…early twenties or so…dressed much as she was, summer frock, sandals, the occasional cardi or headscarf. She noticed that one or two had brought their gas masks – which was unusual nowadays. After the initial terror of being gassed had passed, most people didn’t bother to carry them any more. Alice remembered being made to practise using hers. Remembered her gasp of fright as, for a second or two, she hadn’t been able to breathe properly, had felt trapped, and ugly. And frightened.

  But so far so good. The war was nearly two years old already and no lethal gas had arrived. Surely that would never happen now? She bit her lip. Why on earth was the world having to go through this all over again? It was only a couple of decades since the last one…the Great War…how could history be repeating itself? Especially after Mr. Chamberlain had come back from his meeting with Hitler, the piece of paper he was holding bearing such high hopes of “peace in our time”? Utterly futile as it turned out. High hopes? No hopes, as it turned out.

  Alice wondered what her mother and father would make of it, if they were still here. Her eyes misted as she thought of them. Her merchant seaman father had survived against all the odds in the first one – his ship somehow managing to deny the hungry Atlantic another expensive meal. Yet he was to lose his life later in a stupid accident. Alice’s lips tightened as her thoughts tormented her. For four long years God had answered her mother’s prayers, only to turn His back on them afterwards. It didn’t make any sense.

  The last few women were boarding the bus now, and coming towards Alice was a tall, well-built girl with dyed blonde hair nearly reaching her shoulders, and held in place by a Kirby grip at either side. Her friendly face was enlivened by a pair of deep blue eyes, her full lips painted a bright red. As she grinned down, her teeth were snow-white. She immediately plonked herself next to Alice.

  ‘Watcher, I’m Fay,’ the girl said cheerily. ‘Blimey, it’s flippin’ hot, idn’t it? God alone knows what we’re all letting ourselves in for in this carry-on!’

  ‘Hello, I’m Alice,’ Alice said, responding with a generous smile of her own, warming to the girl’s outgoing nature and hearty Bristolian accent.

  ‘Watcher, Alice,’ Fay said. She rummaged in her large holdall and took out a tube of Maynard’s wine gums. Yer – have one a’ these! You’re not teetotal are you? They’re pretty alcoholic if you’re not used to them!’

  Alice took a gum from the tube and popped it into her mouth. ‘Thanks. And I’m not teetotal.’ (Well, not exactly. Despite her upbringing, she had enjoyed the odd port and lemon with Gloria when they’d sometimes sat together at the end of the day. (Though something had made her refuse a swig of gin – Gloria’s preference.) Gloria Hammond owned the small terraced house where Alice had rented a furnished room since leaving the Carmichaels’ place in Clifton. Gloria was a determined optimist – especially since Mr. Churchill had become prime minister last year – and although she’d agreed to tape up her windows to lessen the effect of any bomb blast, she flatly refused to use the Anderson shelter in the vicinity, preferring to sit in the cupboard under the stairs with her wireless and a bottle of gin. “When your number’s up…” she used to say when anyone tried to persuade her to take more effective cover. The house was situated close to the church of the Holy Nativity in Totterdown, and Alice sometimes went there to pray for the souls of her beloved mother and father. And to pray that Sam thought of her sometimes. That he would never forget her.

  ‘Bloody glad to hear that,’ Fay said enthusiastically. ‘I’m hoping that where we’re going there’s a decent pub – or even an indecent one! Somewhere to unwind at the end of the hard days we’ve been warned about.’ She sighed. ‘I bet they’ll choose me to muck out the pigs, and shovel the shit!’ She gave Alice a sidelong glance. ‘Whereas…I can see you feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, and giving a little newborn lamb its bottle! You look far too fragile to get your hands dirty!’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite used to getting my hands dirty,’ Alice assured her. ‘Anyway – I’m sure we’ll share the duties.’ She smiled up at Fay, taking another wine gum. She liked Fay.

  Just then, the last passenger got on the bus and walked carefully up the aisle towards them. She was wearing a blue and white pin-stripe dress with a neat Peter Pan collar, a straw boater, and short white gloves. A mass of auburn curls framed a rather earnest-looking face. She paused hesitantly, as if waiting to be invited to sit down, and Fay looked up and patted the seat next to her.

  ‘Yer –come and join us,’ she said heartily, and one or two looked around to see who was talking. Fay’s voice had a ringing quality to it, edged with a smoker’s huskiness – which suited the rest of her, Alice thought. ‘Come on – let’s give you a hand with that thing.’ Fay helped the other girl to slide her suitcase alongside. ‘And we might as well get the formalities over with – I’m Fay – this is Alice – and you’re…?’

  Another moment’s hesitation before – ‘I’m…I’m Eve Miles,’ the girl said, sitting down. Then – ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she added demurely, taking off her hat and gloves, and putting them with the handbag on her lap.

  As the bus trundled away from Temple Meads railway station – the picking-up point for everyone – conversation, which had been somewhat muted and discreet, soon gathered momentum. That was the thing with this war. Complete strangers talked to each other without reticence, exchanging views and news on everything from bomb damage and rationing to what they’d do to Herr Hitler if they got the chance. And some of the things Alice had heard weren’t fit for the ears of polite company. Still, you couldn’t blame anyone. Look at the row of houses they were passing…well, they had once been a row of houses, now just a filthy mass of rubble and blackened bricks. And scenes like that were repeated in many other parts of the city. Who knew what happened to all the poor occupants? They’d have to start all over again…if they’d survived.

  Alice turned to glance out of the side window for a moment, her expression softening as she thought of Helena Carmichael, and the children.

  Especially she thought of Sam…well, she was always thinking of Sam.

  Not too sure where Sam was at the moment, she hadn’t heard recently. But the younger ones were all safe and sound, their boarding schools having been evacuated to remote parts of the country. It was true that the city had enjoyed a few months of comparative peace since the last bombardment, but no one was taking the brief silence for granted…you just never knew. The deadly Blitz in April had left everything and everyone temporarily – only temporarily – shattered. But resolute. Whatever happened, people had kept going about their daily business, shops, offices, limited transport, salvaging what they could to stay open and working. Encouraging each other with optimistic banter and snatches of songs…“Hitler you’re barmy, you should have joined the army…” The war had brought a city of complete strangers into one big family intent on supporting each other, and most seemed to be cheerful in spite of everything, each determined to “do their bit” for the war effort. It was amazing how things sometimes turned out.

  Alice had been expecting to be called up for the war effort but hadn’t considered the particular role set out for her. She’d been interviewed, and passed her medical test with fl
ying colours, thank goodness – well, she was made of stern stuff, even if she was rather slight. And she was seldom unwell, for which she was grateful. No, she realized she could have been marked out for anything. Factory work, hospital work…perhaps even European resistance work! That might have been exciting! If rather dangerous. Probably very dangerous… Alice had sometimes allowed her imagination to wander as she’d got on with her job as a shorthand typist in one of the city’s estate agent’s.

  She settled back into her seat. She was lucky – they were all lucky on this bus. At least where they were going they wouldn’t be waiting for the air-raid siren to start its terrifying wail, no more listening for that hateful throbbing of German aircraft as you ran, panicking, to take shelter, no more listening to the thunder of falling bombs, of seeing fires light up the night sky, of feeling broken glass and telegraph wires scrunch under your feet as next day you walked along after a raid, trying to get to work. There’d be none of that, deep in the countryside…the enemy wouldn’t waste time and ammunition down there. And if they did ever hear the siren – where they were going – it would be a long way away, wouldn’t it? For the benefit of the city dwellers, not for them.

  Yes, Alice did feel really lucky. And not for the first time. Lady Luck had been shadowing her for a lot of her life – even if she’d known great sadness, too.

  They were well away from the outskirts of Bristol now, and heading into the Somerset countryside, and suddenly her introspection was interrupted by Fay exclaiming – ‘Just look at us! We’re like the three wise bloody monkeys sitting ’ere… See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil!’ She giggled infectiously at her own observation, though Eve – who had had her eyes closed – only managed a faint smile in response. And Alice said –

  ‘Well, we can’t do much about the first two – but what about the third one…?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t promise anything,’ Fay said airily. ‘If evil seeks me out, I’ll give as good as I get, don’t you worry!’