by Katie Flynn
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Katie Flynn
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Copyright
About the Book
Will she find love in her wartime home?
1939
All over Britain, children are being evacuated. Eve Armstrong and her little brother are headed for Devon, where their parents will do their bit in Plymouth. Pulling out of London, Eve takes a last look at the crowded platform, the shabbily dressed evacuees, and a rude little boy sticking his tongue out. She’s looking forward to a change of scene.
And at first, surrounded by countryside, animals and new pals, Eve is happier than ever at Drake’s Farm. Not even her daily chores dampen her spirits. It’s a different world that invites fresh starts, and so when Eve runs into the boy from the station, Johnny Durrell, they call a truce and soon become firm friends.
To begin with, the war seems a distant reality, but when new evacuee Connie Hale arrives from Liverpool, every day becomes a battle. Connie is very pretty and mature beyond her years, but she is also lazy, stuck-up and spiteful – and Johnny’s new best friend. As the conflict grows and Eve with it, will she fight for Johnny or concede defeat?
About the Author
Katie Flynn has lived for many years in the north-west. A compulsive writer, she started with short stories and articles, and many of her early stories were broadcast on Radio Merseyside. She decided to write her Liverpool series after hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the early years of the twentieth century. She also writes as Judith Saxton. For the past few years, she has had to cope with ME but has continued to write.
www.katieflynn.com
Also by Katie Flynn
A Liverpool Lass
The Girl from Penny Lane
Liverpool Taffy
The Mersey Girls
Strawberry Fields
Rainbow’s End
Rose of Tralee
No Silver Spoon
Polly’s Angel
The Girl from Seaforth Sands
The Liverpool Rose
Poor Little Rich Girl
The Bad Penny
Down Daisy Street
A Kiss and a Promise
Two Penn’orth of Sky
A Long and Lonely Road
The Cuckoo Child
Darkest Before Dawn
Orphans of the Storm
Little Girl Lost
Beyond the Blue Hills
Forgotten Dreams
Sunshine and Shadows
Such Sweet Sorrow
A Mother’s Hope
In Time for Christmas
Heading Home
A Mistletoe Kiss
The Lost Days of Summer
Christmas Wishes
The Runaway
A Sixpenny Christmas
The Forget-Me-Not Summer
A Christmas to Remember
Time to Say Goodbye
A Family Christmas
A Summer Promise
When Christmas Bells Ring
An Orphan’s Christmas
Available by Katie Flynn writing as Judith Saxton
You Are My Sunshine
First Love, Last Love
Someone Special
Still Waters
We’ll Meet Again
A Family Affair
Jenny Alone
Chasing Rainbows
All My Fortunes
Sophie
Harbour Hill
The Arcade
The Pride
The Glory
The Splendour
Full Circle
For Geoff and Dorothy Chetwynd and their feathered friends, not forgetting the bees!
Acknowledgements
I have had a dreadful year healthwise, and am still suffering from shingles, which scrambles one’s brain in a very nasty way, and which has meant both friends and colleagues have had to work twice as hard as usual to keep my work on track. If I acknowledged everyone personally I should need half a book, but my editor Nancy Webber, my agent Caroline Sheldon, and my new in-house editor Viola Hayden, along with my daughter Holly Pemberton and my secretary Jo Prince deserve a special mention as they have all worked uncomplainingly to right the wrongs and check every word.
Still, I have great hopes that 2017 will be a better year since my Australian grandchildren hope to come over to Britain to help us celebrate our Diamond Wedding!
Prologue
The woman sitting in the back seat of the taxi cab was old; very old. Bert, who had been driving his taxi now for the best part of thirty years, was a connoisseur of the old. They used his cab to take them shopping, or for a weekly trip to the cinema, or a visit to relatives. They liked to chat as he drove, often preferring to sit in the front seat beside him, for most of them were a trifle deaf and found it easier to converse when their heads were more or less on the same level. By now Bert knew most of their names and could have recited those of their children and grandchildren, about whom he had heard a great deal. His passengers liked to discuss their problems with someone not involved and sometimes asked for advice, though he guessed it was seldom taken. Not that Bert minded the gossip; in fact it made his job more interesting. He quite pitied drivers who knew nothing about their fares and cared less.
But this old woman was different. She was a stranger, for a start, and her voice betrayed no hint of the warm burr of a Devonshire accent. He had picked her up at the railway station and had agreed to take her to a farm out on the Moorfield Road, although it was not an area with which he was particularly familiar. At first he had tried to inaugurate some sort of conversation, but he supposed this was one passenger who did not want to talk, for she had climbed into the back and now sat on the worn leather seat gazing absorbedly through the window as they left the suburbs of the small town and reached the countryside.
Bert hummed a tune beneath his breath and drove slowly. It was a glorious day and the breeze coming in through his window carried the scents of summer. Presently, he knew, the Moorfield Road would meet the main Neot road, so if the farm she wanted really was on the Moorfield Road her journey would soon be over. He slowed still further and twisted round in his seat to glance at his fare.
‘This here junction ahead of us is where Moorfield comes to an end,’ he said loudly. ‘Have we passed Drake’s Farm? It was a Drake’s Farm you was wantin’, wasn’t it?’
The old lady nodded. ‘Drake’s Farm,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s back off the road a way. Perhaps I missed the turning, but … ah, no, here it is. Stop here, please.’
Obediently, Bert drew his cab to a halt. He climbed out to give his passenger a hand, but she was staring past him and he turned to follow her gaze. He could see a rough – very rough – track, rutted and overhung by trees which arched overhead, but no sign of any sort of dwelling. He looked doubtfully back at the woman but she was already standing by the car, unclipping her purse. She had asked him about his charges when she had first got into his cab and Bert had guessed an amount which would cover the twelve miles. Now he glanced at the clock on the dashboard and named a sum which was slightly less than he had quoted. She took the money from her purse, p
lus a generous tip, and placed it in his hand. He thanked her, then cleared his throat.
‘I see there’s a lane which must lead to the farm you’re looking for,’ he said rather hesitantly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take the car up there. Is it far to walk?’ He was struck by a sudden recollection. ‘This must be the back way. I remember it was used many, many years ago, but I can take you round to the front if you like. It won’t cost no more – it’s just a matter of turning left at the junction and then left again. Here, I’ll show you; I keep a map in the glove compartment. I doubt if this lane’s shown, but the main road certainly is. Hang on a mo …’
She shook her head and gave him a charming smile, making it plain without words that she appreciated his feeling that she should not be left standing at the roadside. ‘I’ve got a mobile phone, and anyway they’re meeting me here,’ she said, crossing her fingers behind her back as she did so. ‘Well, a little bit further up the lane – only I’m earlier than I should have been. No point in going round to the front.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Bert said, feeling relieved. Today was his day for the school run and though taking his fare to the other end of the lane would only take a few moments he had never been late for the kids yet. He slipped back into the car and wound down his window, about to lean out and remind her that he had given her his card and if she wanted him to return for her she only had to ring the number. He opened his mouth and then realised he would be speaking to himself; the old lady had disappeared. He looked round wildly. The purple and pink of foxgloves and dog roses and tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze met his eyes, but of his passenger there was no sign. Bert turned on the engine and selected first gear, telling himself ruefully that she was pretty nippy for an old ’un. He drove a short way to the nearest point at which he could perform a three point turn, glancing up the rutted lane as he passed, but there was no sign of her. She had disappeared as completely as though she had never been. Bert fished in his side pocket and produced a tin of curiously strong mints. He wondered how she knew the folk from Drake’s Farm, then decided it was none of his business. Doubtless they were friends or relatives and she would be well looked after, for Devon folk were hospitable by nature, and since she was being met she must have warned them of her coming before setting out. Satisfied, he popped a peppermint into his mouth, then speeded up a little. After all, though the kids were often late for him, he had no intention of ever being late for them.
The old woman sat on the bank above the limpid waters of the stream and thought about the past. She could almost hear the splashes as young feet jumped into the water. She closed her eyes, willing memory to come to her aid. Where should she start? She could still remember her first sight of the stream, the day Mummy had brought her to the farm for the first time; and later, the glimpse of Johnny Durrell’s usually dirty face framed by the leaves of the tallest apple tree in the orchard …
But it hadn’t really started with that. She had often dreamed of the farm and the happy band of evacuees who lived there, but dreams and memory are two separate things and today was for remembering. Go back, she told herself. Right back, to the moment when we got on the train meaning to join Daddy in Plymouth.
Chapter One
September 1939
Eve had been gazing through the window with lacklustre eyes as the train on which she was travelling with her mother and her little brother Chrissie chugged slowly through the great city of London, but when it arrived at New Cross station she sat up straight and jerked her mother’s sleeve.
‘Mummy! Have you ever seen so many children? There are some grown-ups, but only one or two, and they look like workmen of some sort.’ Eve shook her mother’s arm again. ‘Do look, Mummy. If Nanny Burton were here she’d say all those boys and girls were the great unwashed, only Daddy said that was rude and I should never repeat it.’
Eleanor Armstrong shook her daughter’s hand off her sleeve and frowned pettishly. She adored her son, of course she did, but he was quite a weight and for the hundredth time she wished she had managed to retain the services of Nanny Burton. She ought to have been the one carrying Chrissie and answering Eve’s questions. However, Nanny Burton was not present, having left the previous week to keep house for her niece, who had taken a job in a munitions factory, and Eleanor was having to cope alone.
‘Mummy? What are the children doing? Are they going to get on our train? I hope they don’t want to come in here – they’ll wake Chrissie and he’ll start to cry again.’
Eleanor heaved a sigh. A guard was pressing his way amongst the children, opening carriage doors as he went, and she had a horrid feeling that the compartment she had bribed a porter to reserve for them would soon be invaded. But the train could not possibly hold the great mass of children on the platform and she said as much, adding that she hoped Eve would behave herself like a little lady and sit quietly in her corner seat.
‘And you needn’t imagine that I intend to allow that rabble to squeeze in with us,’ she added. ‘They are what are being called “evacuees”, you know, getting out of London before the war gets into its stride.’
‘Like us!’ Eve said chirpily. ‘We’re getting out of London before the war starts properly, Daddy said so.’ She gazed into her mother’s beautiful, carefully made-up face. ‘Isn’t that right, Mummy? Aren’t we evacuees as well?’
Eleanor sighed. ‘No we are not,’ she said decidedly. ‘Daddy wants us to be safe, but near him as well. He’s found nice lodgings for us not far from Plymouth, so that’s where we’re going, and whenever his ship docks he’ll join us there. And now will you kindly stop asking questions? If you watch you can see that only a small number of the evacuees are getting aboard our train. The rest will go on another one later, I suppose.’
But Eve was no longer attending to her mother. The guard was returning along the length of the train, slamming the doors shut, and Eve was about to sit back in her seat when a boy in long trousers and a blazer stopped directly outside their open window. He had fair hair which flopped across his forehead, and when he saw her looking at him he pulled the rudest face Eve had ever seen, banged on the glass and said loudly enough for her to hear: ‘We’re gettin’ on a better train than this one. This one’s for kids. Us older ones is goin’ to the country, so yah boo and sucks to you!’
Eve drew in an indignant breath, then glanced towards her mother. Eleanor was not looking in her direction so Eve stuck her tongue out and whispered clearly, ‘Sucks to you as well then. It’s a good thing my mummy didn’t hear you, or you’d be in trouble.’ She hoped to wipe the grin off the boy’s face, but even as the last words left her lips his grin merely widened.
‘Stupid girl!’ he said. ‘Just as well I’m not getting aboard your train, or I’d come along to your compartment and give you a bloody nose.’
Eve gasped. She knew ‘bloody’ was a very rude word indeed, but before she could retaliate her mother grabbed her by one long fair plait and almost flung her back into her seat.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Eleanor Armstrong said as the door to the compartment opened and four or five children filed in and began to take their places on the empty row of seats. ‘If that’s how Nanny Burton allowed you to behave I’m glad she’s left us. And now you’ve gone and woken Chrissie as well as upsetting your mummy. I’m ashamed of you; I never thought you would be so naughty.’
Eve opened her mouth to apologise as the train began to move forward, but the words ‘I’m sorry’ refused to come. ‘He started it, Mummy,’ she said defensively, pointing at the window. ‘And anyway, Chrissie isn’t taking any notice, he’s too busy watching the evacuees.’
Eleanor frowned. ‘Don’t answer me back, miss, just you sit tight until we change trains. Daddy thought you would be a help to me on our journey, but I mean to tell him you’ve been nothing of the sort. No, don’t say anything. I dare say Chrissie will be more assistance to his mummy than you’ve been.’
Eve leaned back in her seat, biting her lip.
She had been a great help to her mother when they had boarded the train, but of course that would all be forgotten. Daddy would be told that it was Mummy who had held the tickets and hailed the porter, not to mention persuading Chrissie to get up whilst it was still dark and eat a breakfast of soggy cornflakes with a glass of milk, and thanking Mr Rogers, the caretaker of the block of flats in which the Armstrongs had lived ever since Eve could remember, before they left the building. Then there had been the wait for the taxi to the station, which Eve had enlivened for Chrissie by singing him songs and nursery rhymes. Mummy would be so keen to tell Daddy that Chrissie had been a positive angel that she would not give a thought to her daughter. I’m only nine; lots of girls of nine would not have helped half as much as I have, Eve thought indignantly. But perhaps Daddy would give her a hug and say he knew she must have been a great help because she was Daddy’s girl, his favourite person next to Mummy, and he knew she would have done everything in her power to see that they reached his side as soon as possible. But at this point Chrissie, who had been staring at the other children in round-eyed amazement, began to jabber and point at the small satchel which he knew held chocolate bars. With a resigned sigh, Eleanor reached for the bag where it lay on the string rack above their heads.
‘You may have one small bar,’ she told him firmly. ‘They have to last us until we reach Daddy, and that may be some time. And you mustn’t get chocolate all over your face and hands; Daddy would be angry if I turned up with a chocolatey son.’
Eve watched with watering mouth as her brother snatched a chocolate bar from the satchel, tore the wrapper from the chocolate and cast it on to the floor. Looking around her, she saw that hers was not the only mouth that watered; if the evacuees had food with them she supposed it would be something boring like sandwiches. She remembered Daddy telling Mummy quite severely that she should not give Chrissie chocolate on the journey.
‘If it doesn’t make him sick, which it probably will, then he’ll get covered in it,’ he had said. ‘Do you hear me, Ellie? He mustn’t have chocolate. It would only make him thirsty anyway.’
