Women on the Home Front

by Annie Groves

  Reluctantly the assistant called the Manageress.

  ‘Madam,’ said the Manageress, a snooty woman who held her head back and peered at the offending garment as if it had a very bad smell, ‘there is nothing wrong with the suit. It’s the material.’

  Slightly confused, Dee frowned. ‘But surely that’s the same thing?’

  But the Manageress was implacable. ‘We never have complaints. There is nothing wrong with the suit,’ she repeated.

  ‘A suit is made of material,’ Dee pointed out. ‘Without material there would be no suit and this material is very creased.’

  But the Manageress refused to budge. Dee could feel herself getting quite cross. How dare they look down their noses at her? She gritted her teeth and stood her ground.

  ‘Give me the name and address of your head office,’ she said, raising her voice for the first time.

  The Manageress was reluctant, but it was obvious she didn’t want a scene. A scrap of paper was pushed into her hand and Dee was escorted to the door.

  Back home, Dee composed a letter. She explained the problem very carefully. It took her the best part of the afternoon to work out what to say and she used three quarters of the Basildon Bond she kept for best.

  ‘If the suit creases this much,’ she wrote politely, ‘what will it look like when he poses for the wedding photographs?’

  Dee enclosed a self-addressed envelope with the letter to ensure a speedy reply. All she had to do now was wait for the cheque.

  A week later, Dee recognised her own handwriting on the envelope as it fell on to the mat. She sat at her kitchen table with her coffee to savour the moment.

  ‘Dear Madam,’ the letter said. ‘We regret you are dissatisfied with our merchandise. However, as Mrs Gambol, the Manageress, pointed out, Lion Stores’ suits are second to none. The cut and style are immaculate and the colour is the very latest fashion. We suggest to avoid further creasing, your son should wait until the last minute to put on his suit.’

  Dee almost choked on her digestive biscuit. Then she reached for her notepad once again.

  The local paper made her simple request a generous headline. ‘Crumpled suit good enough for local hero?’ certainly captured everybody’s attention and sold a lot of newspapers.

  The Manageress was given the opportunity to put her side of the story in the next issue. She repeated her first edict and posed outside the front door of Lion Stores. The photograph was a little unflattering, especially with her arms folded over her ample bosom, and everyone agreed that the unfortunate smudge under her nose made her look like somebody else entirely.

  It was after that, that the national press began to show interest and ‘there’s nothing wrong with the suit, it’s the material’ became the new buzzwords.

  Dee was alarmed when she was asked to give a TV interview, but she was quite excited to be sitting on the sofa with Sophie on the Beeb and then with Lorraine over on the other side.

  ‘Surely they can’t expect,’ she asked innocently, ‘my son to arrive at the church in his boxer shorts and shirt and then to put his suit on in the car park?’

  The TV presenters agreed that it was ridiculous to ask any man to do that. Lorraine seemed positively appalled, and when she held up a picture of the tearful bride holding a photograph of her fiancé, the whole nation was stirred into action.

  Clothwise Fabrics were none too pleased when their shares suddenly plummeted on the stock market. A furious Board of Directors met to consider legal action against Lion Stores, and when the local MP bumped into the Lion Stores MD at their golf club, the intransigence of the managerial department was suddenly reversed.

  When he came back home on leave, Mark was stunned to find he had a five star wedding all lined up for him. Everything, the cake, the reception, the cars, the photographs, had all been generously donated by those who wanted to make sure that ‘one of our boys’ had a day to remember. Everyone agreed that his designer suit, personally paid for by the owners of Lion Stores, Clothwise Fabrics and the local MP, was superb. Bride and groom were happy to be photographed, videoed and filmed for all the glossies … for a small fee of course.

  The world cruise honeymoon was a terrific surprise and the Brigadier (who went to the same golf club), made sure the groom had enough leave to enjoy every minute.

  Satisfied at last, Dee kissed her new daughter-in-law and son goodbye as the honeymoon car waited to take them to the airport. One hundred yards down the road it stopped and reversed back.

  ‘Mum,’ said Mark, ‘do us one more favour will you? Could you take the suit back to the shop for me? I got it from “Seconds for Hire” on the high street.’

  Can a wife ever really know her husband?

  A gripping family drama for fans of Kitty Neale and Maureen Lee.

  The war may be over but the hard times have only just begun for the Roberts family.

  Full of family drama, this is the perfect read for fans of Maureen Lee and Katie Flynn.

  About the Author

  Adopted from birth, Pam Weaver trained as a Nursery Nurse working mainly in children’s homes. She was also a Hyde Park nanny. In the 1980s she and her husband made a deliberate decision that she should be a full-time mum to their two children. Pam wrote for small magazines and specialist publications, finally branching out into the women’s magazine market. Pam has written numerous articles and short stories, many of which have been featured in anthologies. Her story The Fantastic Bubble was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and the World Service. This is her fourth book.

  Copyright

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2013

  Copyright © Pam Weaver 2013

  Cover photographs © Getty Images & Alamy

  Cover design © Debbie Clement 2013

  Pam Weaver 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.

  Source ISBN: 9781847563620

  Ebook Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9780007480449

  Version 1

  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, down-loaded, 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.

  KAY BRELLEND

  Coronation Day

  MAH and GCH, much love to you both

  and wishing you well, now and always.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Summer 1939: Park Road Pool, Hornsey

  ‘Leave her alone, Vic, fer Gawd’s sake. You make her blub again and we’ll all get chucked out. Lifeguard’s got his eye on us.’ Christopher Wild jerked his head towards a tanned, brawny fellow, garbed in swimming trunks. From his vantage point, seated at the top of an A-frame ladder, the lifeguard had a clear view over the lido and at present had his stern expression fixed on them.

  Vic shrugged off the warning, intent on swaggering over to the group of schoolgirls to continue teasing them. Christopher grabbed his pal’s arm and yanked him back. The youngest girl was crying, and being comforted by her bathing-costumed friends. At intervals the group was throwing dirty looks at the party of youths.

  ‘Only having a bit of a lark with her, bleedin’ cry baby she is.’

  ‘Ain’t a lark if she’s hurt, is it?’ Christopher pointed out and shoved Vic Wilson down onto the grass next to some of their pals. He’d just prevented him again trying to creep up behind Grace Coleman to nudge her into the deep end of the pool. The first time he’d done it Vic had given the lame excuse that he was teaching her to swim. Christopher thought Vic a good pal on the whole, but knew he could be spiteful, and stupid too.

  Christopher sat down next to Vic. Most of the members of their little gang were lying back, basking in the July sun’s warmth. Christopher remained seated on the parched grass with his arms clasped around his raised knees. He subtly watched the group of girls and, in particular, Grace who was knuckling her bloodshot eyes and pushing rats’ tails of drenched hair back from her forehead. She’d managed to hang onto the side of the pool after Vic had given her a hefty bump, sending her off balance and into the water. Although she’d disappeared beneath the surface, her friends had hauled her out almost immediately.

  Grace Coleman was a skinny little thing with long fair hair. She was usually quite loud and confident and was popular too. In other respects, she was quite sporty, and could outrun all the boys in kiss chase. But she couldn’t swim.

  The Colemans lived in the next street to Christopher in Islington and their families knew each other well. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he’d always quite liked her. At ten years old she was two years younger than he was, and in Christopher’s opinion Vic Wilson was a prat for tormenting her so he could show off.

  Noticing the direction of his friend’s gaze Vic said, ‘Dunno why she comes here if she don’t like getting wet.’

  ‘She don’t mind getting wet, it’s drowning she ain’t keen on.’

  ‘I’m getting a drink.’ Bill Bright, one of Christopher’s other friends, got up and strolled off in his swimming trunks in the direction of the cafeteria.

  ‘Get us one ’n’ all,’ Vic called after him.

  ‘Give us the money then,’ Bill sent back over a shoulder.

  ‘Give it yer when you get back.’ Vic grinned cheekily.

  Bill showed him two fingers and put on a swagger as he came level with the group of girls.

  Christopher noticed that Grace was about to be left on her own again. Now she’d quietened down, her friends were jumping back into the pool, intent on enjoying themselves. He levered himself up and went over to sit down on the grass beside her.

  ‘You alright?’

  She nodded and sniffed. Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed on Vic, who was watching them. ‘If he tries to push me in again I’m gonna tell on him. Me dad’ll give him such a hiding.’

  ‘He’s just an idiot. Don’t mind him.’ Christopher thought it was unlikely that old man Coleman would stir himself enough to do any such thing. When Wilf Coleman wasn’t working in a meat factory he spent his time slouched in the betting shop or in the pub.

  ‘You’re a good swimmer,’ Grace said enviously. ‘I was watching you earlier diving off the board.’

  ‘Got taught when I was little by me dad.’

  ‘Bet he didn’t push you in. My dad did. When we went on holiday to Clacton he tried teaching me to swim like Vic just did. He got annoyed and pushed me off the edge of the pool ’cos I wouldn’t get in. Was only the shallow end though,’ she added in mitigation.

  ‘S’pose me dad might have done that to me.’ Christopher narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You ought to learn, y’know, ’cos if you don’t you’ll get teased every time you come here with yer friends. Can’t just hang about on the side, can you?’ He nodded at the girls frolicking in the pool. ‘None of them offered to hold your chin so’s you can do a few strokes to and fro?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, they have. I just don’t like it though. Don’t like feeling the water stinging me nose and me eyes.’

  ‘Gotta hold yer breath and keep yer eyes shut,’ he explained. ‘Soon as yer head’s up and out, blink and take a big breath.’

  ‘’S’alright fer you to say.’

  ‘I’ll show you if you like.’

  ‘He’s sent you over to try and push me in, hasn’t he!’ Grace glared at Christopher and shuffled away on her skinny posterior.

  ‘Please yourself …’ Christopher sighed and got up.

  A moment later Grace was at his side, her small hands wringing water from her long hair. ‘You could show me another time … when they’re not about … they’ll just laugh.’ Her eyes slid sideways towards the watching youths.

  ‘Might not be coming again for a while.’ Christopher grimaced and stepped away.

  ‘Alright … show me …’ Grace caught at his hand to stop him leaving. ‘But round the other side, away from them.’

  Christopher disentangled his fingers from hers and ambled around the perimeter of the pool with Grace traipsing in his wake. He stopped by an area of water that wasn’t quite as populated.

  Grace nervously assessed the rocking blue waves. ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘Come to about the top of your head. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up, won’t let go … honest. Then you’ve just got to do a bit of doggie paddle towards the shallow end and you’ll be able to stand up … or carry on if you like.’

  Grace took a deep breath, trudging forward.

  ‘Ready?’ he said, standing by her side at the edge of the pool.

  He got no reply. He cast a look down on her wet head. ‘Once you’ve done it, nobody’s gonna tease you no more.’

  She nodded her agreement. She could see her friends larking about. They hadn’t even noticed she’d moved away and was about to make a momentous effort.

  ‘Ready?’ Christopher asked again.

  She nodded, sucked in a shaky breath and in the split second he moved she grabbed at one of his hands, launching herself forward with him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  February 1952

  ‘Touch any of them tools again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do, you thievin’ toerag.’

  Christopher Wild stuck a threatening finger close to the man’s bristly chin, his face contorted into a savage mask. A moment ago he’d been knocking down a partition wall inside a derelict property when, from the corner of an eye, he’d seen a suspicious movement through a gaping hole in brickwork where a window frame had once been.

  ‘Wasn’t stealin’, was I now,’ the fellow muttered in his guttural Irish accent. ‘Was just gonna borrer the pick for a little while, that’s all it was …’ He propped the pick back against the front wall of the house, next to a fourteen-pound hammer, then stuffed his hands into his donkey-jacket pockets. He was a large individual with wildly unkempt black hair and a ruddy complexion.

  ‘Yeah, ’course … just gonna borrow it, weren’t yer …’ Christopher mimicked sarcastically. He grabbed several implements by their battered wooden handles and sent them hur
tling, one after the other, along the hallway of the house where they thudded against bare boards. ‘Piss off and borrow stuff off yer mates.’ Christopher flicked his head at the contingent of navvies working a distance away along the street. Some of them had heard what was going on and had come out of the tenement to watch. A couple started to approach.

  The Irishman spread calloused hands, gesturing for a truce as he retreated. Despite his attempt at nonchalance his small eyes were shifting to and fro. Christopher knew if the navvy had managed to filch the pick, Wild Brothers Builders would never have seen it again … not without a fight anyhow. And they’d had one of those earlier in the week when a couple of shovels went missing. The week before that there had been an almighty bust-up when his colleague, Bill, got a tooth smashed in a fight. A new high-reach ladder had disappeared from where it had been tied on the top of one of their vans. Of course, the pikeys had denied all knowledge of any of it, they always did, but now Christopher had caught one of them red-handed he knew that every accusation, every punch landed, had been well deserved.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nuthin’ I can’t handle,’ Christopher mumbled to a middle-aged man who’d sprinted up to him, looking agitated.

  Stephen Wild, Christopher’s father, had been sitting in one of the vehicles scribbling with a pencil in his notebook when he’d noticed a confrontation between his son and one of Declan O’Connor’s crew. He’d stuck the pencil behind his ear, dropped the ledger, and sprung immediately from the Bedford van to rush over. He was well aware that things could turn very nasty at any time.