Storm Clouds Over Broombank
Freda Lightfoot
Originally published 1994 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
Copyright © 1994 and 2010 by Freda Lightfoot.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0956607317
Published by Freda Lightfoot 2010
‘Lightfoot clearly knows her Manchester well’
Historical Novel Society
‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’
The West Briton
‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’
Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.
‘a compelling and fascinating tale’ Middlesborough Evening Gazette on The Favourite Child (In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers)
‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.
‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . . a great read!’
South Wales Evening Post on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane
‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’
Booklist on Hostage Queen
‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’ The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls
‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’
Westmorland Gazette on Luckpenny Land
‘An inspiring novel about accepting change and bravely facing the future.’
The Daily Telegraph on Ruby McBride
Meg Turner is at last doing the job she loves. But life as a sheep farmer -unusual for a woman even in war time - proves tougher at times than she expected. With her loyalties divided she fears losing the one man she truly loves should he decide to go roving again. And dare she allow herself to love baby Lissa when her mother may return to claim her at any time? Kath is facing new challenges in the WAAF, but can she ever get over the guilt of leaving her child behind?
Chapter One
1940
Kath Ellis licked the envelope flap, slipped the letter into its appointed place, then quietly closed the door and turned the key.
‘Why do you bother?’ her friend, Bella, asked. ‘Either send the dratted thing or stop wasting time writing them.’
Hardly a week went by without her writing to someone back home. Her father, mother, Meg, even Jack, for all she had no wish to ever see him again. The letters were all there, neatly tied into bundles in her locker, stampless envelopes stuck down as if they’d already been seen by the censor. Except that she’d no intention of posting any of them.
Kath smiled. ‘They’re like a diary. Who knows? One day somebody may be glad to know what I got up to during these years of war. Were I to be no longer around.’
Her daughter perhaps?
Bella took the pen from her fingers. ‘Stop that this minute. I won’t have you tempt fate with such wild notions. My father thinks women in uniform are the lowest of the low, so let’s brave the local hostelry and prove it, shall we? We have two whole hours before the ten-thirty curfew, cocoa, and bed.’
Kath laughed. ‘Like good girls at school.’
Bella tucked Kath’s arm into hers as they clattered past the row of beds and left the Nissen hut. ‘You’re lucky if you went to that sort of school. No one gave out cocoa at mine, only verses of Old Testament to be endlessly learned, and the cane every Friday.’
Katherine Ellis only laughed. Not quite the glossy beauty she’d once been, her sleek blonde bob was cut short, although starting to grow again, the once perfectly manicured nails bitten to the quick. But there was still that elusive quality about her that spoke of a sheltered background, of a girl who had taken her natural attraction to men rather for granted, although the price she’d paid for that foolishness had been high.
‘I can just see you as a schoolgirl, all pigtails and short socks.’ Bella grinned. ‘I was a terror. Bigger than most of the teachers. Come on, old sport, tonight we celebrate the end of the dreaded training, for tomorrow we face the horrors of carrying our kitbags half across country to the outer wilds of East Anglia.’
Kath had met Bella on Euston Station. Surrounded by more girls than she had ever seen in her life, all chattering twenty to the dozen, the noise had been deafening. Then one black-haired, black-eyed girl of Amazon proportions had turned to her with a wry smile. ‘They’ll soon shut up when reality sets in.’
It had set in alarmingly early. The moment they saw the train backing into Platform One it came home to them that this was the moment of no return. When they boarded, they’d be on their way to becoming a member of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. They’d be a WAAF.
To Kath it had seemed the only answer after Meg rescued her from Greenlawns, the Home for Wayward Girls where she’d given birth to Jack’s baby and feared she might be incarcerated forever. When the pair of them had reached Liverpool’s Lime Street Station, Kath had pushed Meg on to the train and thrust Melissa into her arms, not even noticing the irony of relinquishing her daughter to the woman she’d betrayed, her one-time best friend. Kath had known only that she wasn’t fit to be anyone’s mother, that she had no love to give.
She’d boarded the next train and come straight to London on the money the home had given her, not knowing what she intended, nor caring very much. On reaching the Capital she’d tried a series of temporary jobs - waitress, barmaid, shop assistant - boring, mindless tasks, and always with the problem of where to lay her head. She used the underground if she could get away with it, though it wasn’t, strictly speaking, allowed. The government had decided it would be bad for morale to hide like rats in a hole. Or a women’s hostel if she could find one, a park bench if necessary.
But then she’d seen the poster and the answer seemed suddenly obvious. In the WAAF she would be provided with food, clothing, a bed to sleep in, work with pay at the end of it, and no questions asked. One of hundreds of girls her indiscretions could be safely buried, if not forgotten. Worn out and feeling far from clean, she’d gladly signed up.
She hadn’t minded the weeks of hard training that followed. Nor had it troubled her in the least to stand for hours in the freezing cold, run up and down on the spot or do a half-day route march. She’d been forced to do far worse in the yards of Greenlawns. And it was a blessed improvement upon working in the laundry.
Kath hadn’t objected to the school-type lectures on mathematics, geography and morse code. She’d written her letters during some of the more boring ones, meaning at first to keep in touch. In the end her courage had failed her and the letters had stayed in her bag, then been consigned to the locker. For the moment.
‘So long as they don’t give us any more of those damned inoculations,’ said Bella. ‘I can take anything th
ey throw at me, but those.’
Bella had been ill with fever and the shakes after the typhoid, tetanus and smallpox injections. Kath was thankful to be able to prove she’d already had them.
‘And no more of those unspeakably awful FFI examinations,’ Kath laughed. ‘Cavorting about knickerless is not my idea of fun.’
Hadn’t it been proved already, at the home, that she was free from infection? And no WAAF Officer could make a worse job of it than Miss Blake. Not that she admitted to anyone that she’d suffered the dreaded test once already.
Bella looked at her in open admiration. ‘Bloomin’ hell, I’ll never forget the way you walked in to that room. Cool as a cucumber you were. Everyone else was white-faced and trembling, or giggling and weeping from nerves, and you strip off your pink regulation panties as if it were common place. That isn’t what you were, is it, in real life? A stripper?’
Kath giggled. ‘No, but maybe I should have tried it. It might have paid better than a waitress job at the UCP.’ The best of it was that Bella would have accepted her just the same if she had been.
‘Undoubtedly, and with better tips. Only snag would be all those men gawping at you. Give me the shivers, that would. I’m off them myself.’
Kath grinned. ‘Right now I’m inclined to agree with you.’
Bella cast her new friend a sideways glance as she handed over a half pint glass of cider. ‘Got your fingers burned, did you?’
‘You might say so.’
‘Well, that’s another thing we have in common. No romantic story of partings and promises to wait for me either. My old man put five bob on the table, told me he was off to join the Army and ta ta. That was the last I heard of him. No letters, no pay cheque every month, not even a telegram. I can only assume that he’s alive and well and keeping out of my way, which is fine by me. Not a marriage made in heaven, I can tell you, more like in Epping Forest.’
‘Any children?’
‘Nope. Nor do I ever intend having any, smelly, demanding creatures that they are. My mother had one a year for fourteen years then dropped dead. That ain’t for me.’
A vision of a small crumpled face came into Kath’s mind and she took a quick draught of her cider.
‘Steady on, it’s stronger than it looks.’
‘When do you think we’ll get our uniform?’ Kath asked. ‘When we get to our new posting?’
‘Let’s hope so. You look like you might be off to Ascot in that posh suit. Not to mention that fancy tan hat. Have you nothing else to wear?’
‘I lost all my luggage,’ Kath lied.
‘Poor sod. Well, at least take off the hat in here or they’ll double the price of the drinks.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’ Kath realised the outfit spoke of money and class but Aunt Ruby never had sent on her other clothes and this was all she possessed in the world.
Even if she’d been dressed in rags, her background would still have shown. It was all there in the way she held her head, the swing of her walk. If she was unaware how her instinctive style, her air of self-confidence, were all signals that Katherine Ellis was sure of her place in society, it also showed how little she cared.
But it would be a misinterpretation, a travesty of the truth to assume she was that same socialising, careless Katherine of long ago. Were anyone to take the trouble to look closer they might find some surprising contradictions. A few calluses and blisters in unexpected places for one thing, as well as the hard-bitten nails. But the almost insolent arrogance hid her fears well, for she didn’t intend anyone to probe too deeply.
Let them look and see me as I really am, she thought. A woman who has been to the bottom and is clawing her way back out of the pit. Let them see courage, guts, and a warning to stand clear and not dare to bully me or I’ll blast their socks off! Greenlawns had introduced her to physical pain but had failed to destroy the intrinsic strength she held inside. Not so reckless as she once was, nor so restless, but a whole lot tougher.
So let the WAAF do its worst.
It was a dull, cloudy day in the early summer of 1940 when Kath and Bella arrived at Bledlow, together still thanks to some crafty swopping of postings on their part. A light drizzle had started and a thick mist was blowing in from the sea.
Italy had declared war on Britain and France. Housewives were stripping their kitchens of pans to make aeroplanes. Churchill was talking of Britain’s finest hour, but depression was rife and the forces were pulling in new recruits as fast as they could, even women.
‘You would think they’d be glad to see us, wouldn’t you? Instead of leaving us hanging around,’ Bella said as they staggered off the bus with their kit bags to stand uncertain and abandoned on the cinder path, wondering where they should go next.
‘At least we look like WAAF girls now.’
‘This tie is strangling me already.’
They’d been issued with a basic uniform at last and for all it was either five sizes too big or fitted where it touched, most of them, particularly Kath, had been glad to get it. It made them seem more professional.
There’d been much complaining, of course, and desperate swops made to try to find a near match in size. But the blue jacket and skirt for all its coarse newness, even the stiff-collared shirt that chafed her neck, seemed an infinite improvement upon the shapeless overall of Greenlawns.
A voice loud enough to lift the dome off St Paul’s sounded across the parade ground. ‘You two Waafs! Cut along and get signed in and stop standing about like dummies. There’s a war on, you know.’
They fled through the first door ahead of them. Unfortunately it was the wrong one. A sea of blue uniforms met their eyes all right, but there were men inside them and not women. And some of the bodies didn’t have uniforms of any sort on them.
‘Oh, dear lordy, let’s get out of here.’
‘Hey, look who’s come calling, chaps. Two new little darlings. Lost your way, have you? Come over here. We’ll explain the drill to you.’ A riot of whistles and cat calls greeted this remark, and as one the girls turned and fled, giggling madly, straight into the Waaf Officer. ‘Checking out stores already?’
Kath choked. ‘Sorry, we - um - made a mistake.’
‘Ma’am.’
‘Ma’am.’
‘And you salute an officer, Waaf, every time you see one. Didn’t they teach you that at training?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Kath dropped her bag and attempted a salute. She wasn’t very good at it, and Bella was even worse, looking very like a lamp post gone wrong.
‘I hope the Airforce hasn’t made a bigger mistake in taking you two on. If you’d care to follow me you might give us the benefit of your name and number while I have the pleasure of directing you to your quarters.’
Kath trusted the officer’s soft tones even less than her official one. Dragging her kit bag behind her, Kath gabbled out rank and number and followed Bella along the cinder path.
The Waaf Officer stopped. ‘Do you have a problem with your kit, Airwoman?’
Kath shook her head, glancing beseechingly at Bella. Whenever she tried to swing it up on to her shoulder she very nearly decapitated herself or else flung herself off her feet. When there was no wall to prop it on first, Bella gave her a hand to lift it.
‘I didn’t quite catch your reply.’
‘No, I don’t have a problem.’
‘I think you do. Ma’am.’
‘Oh, sorry, ma’am.’ And to Kath’s great mortification, the Waaf Officer stood and smilingly waited while Kath manoeuvred, with considerable difficulty, the long heavy bag into place.
‘You look in need of more training to me, Airwoman.’
‘It’s my narrow shoulders. The thing keeps slipping off. Ma’am.’ Kath attempted to explain but saw by the frosty expression she was wasting her time.
At the Guard Room they booked in and were directed to their billet. With thoughts of hot tea and a soft bed to lay their tired bodies they reached it at a smart pace.
Yet another Nissen hut lined with beds and heated, if that was the word, by an ancient coke stove that no doubt belched out more smoke, dust and fumes than warmth. Kath dropped her bag with a weary sigh. Fortunately this was summer so that was a pleasure in store for later.
Waaf Officer Mullin, or Mule as she came to be known, attempted to show a more human side to her nature. ‘Get yourself unpacked. There’s hot water for a bath if you’re quick. Be in the Mess Hall by six.’
‘Oh, blimey, this is good,’ said Bella, falling prone on to her bed. The springs creaked ominously, the mattress was as hard as the iron bedstead, but she didn’t care. ‘Utter bliss.’
‘Don’t get too comfortable,’ Kath warned, her own eyes half closed in almost instant sleep. ‘We have to be quick, remember?’
But before the delectable promise of hot water and food dragged them from their beds, an air raid warning sounded and then they did move very quickly, blindly rushing out to follow a trickling mass of people who seemed far from pleased at being interrupted, and confusingly not all going in the same direction.
‘Blooming Hitler. I’d just got my head down.’
‘Where’s the shelter?’ Kath asked one passing Waaf.
‘Shelter? Ditch more like. We call it a slit trench. Most people only bother when it’s really necessary, and if it’s dry, for obvious reasons. New, are you? I’m Liz Parry.’
‘Ellis. And this is Kendrick.’ Kath felt quite pleased with herself for picking up the correct style. ‘Does it show very much that we’re new?’
‘Your tie is all wrong for a start. It’ll work loose that way. And you’ll need to spend every evening polishing those buttons to get a lovely mellow shine. Then you might not look such complete rookies.’
‘This tie’s near choking me.’
The girl called Parry laughed and her serious face lit up. She was pretty, Kath decided, with her golden curly hair and neat figure. Reminded her a bit of Meg.
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