by Tania Crosse
THE STREET OF BROKEN DREAMS
Tania Crosse
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Table of Contents
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About The Street of Broken Dreams
Summer 1945. The nation rejoices as the Second World War comes to an end but Banbury Street matriarch, Eva Parker, foresees trouble ahead.
Whilst her daughter, Mildred, awaits the return of her fiancé from overseas duty, doubts begin to seep into her mind about how little she knows of the man she has promised to marry. Or are her affections being drawn elsewhere?
Meanwhile, new neighbour, dancer Cissie Cresswell, hides a terrible secret. The end of the conflict will bring her no release from the horrific night that destroyed her life. Can she ever find her way back?
Under Eva’s stalwart care, can the two young women unite to face the doubt and uncertainty of the future?
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Street of Broken Dreams
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
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Tania Crosse
Also by Tania Crosse
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
In memory of my dear ballet mistress
Miss Doris Lightowler Knight
And, as ever, for my darling husband
You waltzed away with my heart all those years ago
And we’re still dancing together half a century later
Prologue
May 1944
She stared up, motionless, at the dark, cold arc of the sky. A dead, three-quarter moon struggled overhead, peering between banks of grey mocking cloud and spilling its liquid silver glow over the bomb site. She couldn’t move, pinned by shock to the rubbled ground and broken bricks beneath her, eyes trained on the ether that hovered above, every detail searing into her memory forever.
That stretch of her nightly journey home always made her stomach clench with uneasiness. Five minutes’ walk from where she got off the last bus, she turned down the long street that was no longer a street. Once upon a time, it had been a continuous terrace where people and families had lived and played, a pleasant, tree-lined road opposite a small London park. But since the bombs had come, it was an empty void, the site only partially cleared, tottering walls propped up to make them safe until the bulldozers moved in. The burned-out beams were like black skeletons against the sky, and in the darkness, the ruins were but a tangle of shadows where writhed the ghosts of those who had perished in the blasts.
Tonight, though, had been different. The wondrous reverie that swirled in her head had been but mildly interrupted by the kerfuffle as she’d waited on the platform at the back of the bus. As it drew to a halt at her stop, a large figure had crashed down the stairs from the upper deck. It had landed in a heap by her feet. In the gloom of the blackout, she’d just been able to distinguish the shape of an American forage cap. And by the smell of alcohol that wafted around the fellow, he’d clearly had far too much to drink.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ An instant later, the silhouette of a second GI had followed down the stairs and hauled his inebriated compatriot to his feet.
‘Best get him home, sonny,’ the bus conductor, an older man, had said with a mixture of disgust and sympathy. ‘Best thing’s vinegar and a raw egg – if yer can find such a thing,’ he ended with a grimace.
The girl had waited while the sober GI dragged his companion onto the pavement before stepping down off the platform herself. While they staggered away down the road, she’d paused to let her eyes focus in the darkness. She’d tipped her head skyward and a beam of moonlight had fallen across her face as the clouds parted for a brief moment. At least it wasn’t utterly pitch-dark and she should be able to grope her way along the familiar route home without any trouble.
‘Hey, little lady, d’ya want a ciggie?’
The lurching voice at her elbow had made her jump. She’d known who it was before she’d even turned her head. The gust of cigarette breath laced with beer and whisky fumes had fanned her nostrils, and she’d pulled back with a shudder.
‘Put that out!’ she’d retorted as he’d waved a lit cigarette in front of her. ‘That’s all it’d take if there was a bomber overhead.’
‘But there ain’t no bombers—’
‘Yeah, give me that.’ The other soldier had suddenly appeared and, easily grabbing the little white stick with its glowing tip from his friend’s hand, had ground it out under his foot. ‘My apologies again, miss. He gave us the slip. Come on, Chuck. Let’s get ya back.’
The second chap’s voice was deep and sonorous, and the girl couldn’t quite make out his accent. It was American, yes, but there was something else mixed in with it. Casting a quick, disdainful glance in his direction, she got the impression in the glimmer of moonlight that he was dark-skinned. Ah, that might explain it. There were plenty of black GIs in the US Army, after all.
But she wasn’t going to hang around to find out if she was right. She’d set off down the road, rolling her eyes in annoyance as she heard the drunk GI’s voice raised in protest.
‘But look at her! She’s a little beauty. And she’s got spunk. Ya saw her face in the moonlight. Ain’t she the prettiest thing ya’ve seen all night?’
‘I’m surprised ya can see anything at all, ya’re so pie-eyed. Time to sleep it off, I reckon. Now, come on!’
The sober Yank had grunted in exasperation, and when the girl dared to risk a furtive look over her shoulder, she saw he was half dragging his stumbling pal away – thankfully in the opposite direction. Well, that was a relief! Within moments, she’d forgotten all about the incident as she’d made her way through the unlit streets, and she slid back deliciously into the glorious fantasy. It hadn’t been a fantasy, though, had it? It had been real.
As she’d turned the corner and began to walk past the bomb site, for once, she hadn’t feared the eerie tentacles of the dead that seemed to reach out for her in the dark. The grandiose, emotive tones of Wagner’s Overture to Tristan and Isolde rang once more inside her skull, filling her head so that there was room for nothing else. The new, much-heralded pas de deux had been a triumph, the tumultuous applause reaching into her soul. This was what she had dreamt of, strived so hard for, all of her young life. Her male principal dance partner, Sean, had smiled at her so proudly as he had shown her off to the audience, standing back with a slight bow as she dipped in a curtsey again and again. The stiff netting skirt of her tutu had bobbed up and down as she accepted the bouquet that was presented to her and picked up the individual flowers that were thrown onto the sta
ge.
The enchantment of the intertwining of music and ballet, her most beloved form of dance, still burned in her heart as she made her way home, the magic rising like a fountain in her breast and lifting her soul to some mystical heights. The street and the darkness melted away and her very being was lost in some other place where grace and movement reigned.
She wasn’t sure how or when the sensation came over her that she was being watched, dashing her other world to smithereens. Only seconds later, she began to hear footsteps behind her. Was she being followed? She quickened her pace, heartbeat suddenly racing. It was probably just some innocent passer-by, someone she knew even, hurrying home. But she didn’t like the way the footsteps were speeding up, getting closer.
She forced herself to turn her head but without slowing her pace. She was shocked and alarmed to make out the form of what could only be the drunk GI lumbering after her. Though he didn’t seem so drunk now. He was a big man with a long stride, and though he was unsteady, he was gaining on her.
‘Leave her be, Chuck!’
She saw the other one, then, loping along some way behind, bent double and clutching his stomach as if he’d been on the end of a hefty punch.
‘Ya know I like a bit of spirit in a girl!’ the first soldier roared in reply. ‘It’ll be fun having her, and ya ain’t going to stop me!’
‘Run, miss, run!’ the second soldier called out with a gasp as he tried in vain to catch up.
She didn’t need telling twice. She turned her head forward again and fled. She knew she was fleet of foot, fast, her muscles strong. The devil would never catch her! The gap was widening as she flew along now past the bomb site, and soon she’d be among the labyrinth of narrow backstreets she knew like the back of her hand. She’d lose him in seconds. He’d never be able to follow her in the blackout, and she’d be safely indoors, leaving him lost and defeated in the dark.
Nearly at the surviving houses, heart thundering, breath burning in her lungs, her foot caught on a paving slab that had been cracked and lifted in the bombing raid that had obliterated the street. She felt herself falling, but it happened so quickly and she couldn’t stop it. She put out her hands, but pain seared through her ankle before she made contact with the pavement, her palms stinging as they slapped on the ground. She knew the man would be on her in a trice. She had to get up and run on. She tried desperately to scramble to her feet, but the agony scorched up her leg and into her head. A sickening dizziness clouded her consciousness and darkness closed in.
It was the pain as her back scraped on the jagged ground that brought her to her senses, and she knew she was being dragged into the bomb site. The next instant, the soldier’s heavy body was pinning her down, and she twisted her head as she tried to avoid his slobbering lips.
‘So ya won’t give us a kiss, eh, honey?’ he mocked, and began noisily licking and nuzzling her neck.
She thought she was going to vomit. She struggled, arms flailing. But he caught her wrists. He was so heavy. She did the only thing she could. Hawked up some saliva and spat in his face, hoping the surprise would give her the chance to escape.
It didn’t. He stopped. And then he laughed. A sound of pure evil. Then a giant hand slammed across her cheekbone, sending her head reeling. Her senses stole into nothingness, and she lost time. A few seconds, perhaps.
By some miracle, she felt the great weight suddenly lift from her. She forced her eyes open. Silhouettes in the darkness. Shouts. Thumps and crashes. Thuds as blows landed. The two men were fighting. Her chance to flee. She must! She scrambled to her feet, but her ankle gave way and she yelped as she landed on her knees. Pull herself up again, ignore the agony. Limp, stumble back towards the pavement.
A cry behind her. She turned her head, oblivious to the tears of desperation dripping down her cheeks. One of the men, she wasn’t sure which, was falling backwards, crumpling to the ground like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut. The other stood over him for a moment in a gloating stance, then viciously kicked the inert figure over and over again.
A terrified whimper escaped from the girl’s throat. Dear God, it was clear who was who! She hobbled on, too drenched in fear to look back. She wanted to close her eyes, blot it all out. But she could hear his heavy footsteps lurching over the debris of the bomb site. She knew it was coming. But it couldn’t, mustn’t be real.
Before she could reach the pavement again, she squealed as he caught her arm and swung her round. The stench of drink and cigarettes attacked her nostrils again, and she lashed out, fighting like a wild cat. But he grabbed her shoulders, almost lifting her off her feet, and flung her down on the ground.
She couldn’t breathe, utterly winded, her mind falling into some dark hole. She was helpless as she felt him drag her further back into the site again, where, in the blackout, no passer-by would ever see. She tried to struggle, but he gave that demonic laugh once more. Grabbed her hair, tearing it from her scalp, and thumped her head back hard on the ground.
She saw stars. Couldn’t move. Half blacked out. Consciousness came in waves. She knew he was lifting her skirt, pulling off her knickers, but it was unreal, like a nightmare where everything is disjointed and doesn’t make sense, and her limbs were limp and didn’t respond to any message her stupefied brain tried to send them.
It was only when the pain ripped up into her body that she was snapped back to her senses. It was so intense that, for a second or two, her mind was stunned and oblivious to all else. Then she realised what was happening, and the horror and humiliation speared into her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a sweaty, iron hand came tightly over her face. She was suffocating, gasping for breath, the fight to stay alive greater than the terror of the monster thrusting into her. She felt herself passing out. The end had come. And she welcomed it.
‘Ya leave her alone!’ was the next thing she heard, the outraged voice of the other GI, the one she believed was black, who’d been knocked unconscious and kicked for good measure.
‘Too late,’ came the smirking reply. Laughing, nauseating. Just above her. His weight no longer pinning her down, though the pain still burned inside her.
‘What! Ya don’t mean ya’ve…? Ya filthy bastard!’
‘Now don’t ya go mentioning this, ya dirty nigger,’ the other voice, from further away now, threatened. ‘One word an’ I’ll put ya on a charge, an’ it won’t just be for insubordination. In fact, I’ll say it was you who did it. That’ll get ya hanged an’ ya’ll regret ever openin’ ya mouth!’
‘Jeez, what the hell’ve ya done? Ya can’t just leave her—’
‘She was asking for it, walkin’ alone at this hour. So come on. An’ not a word or ya’ll regret it!’
All went quiet then but for the scuffling of feet. Somehow, the girl found the will to lift her head. She could just make out the silhouette of a taller man dragging the protesting, struggling outline of the other soldier away down the deserted street. Footfall fading. Then silence. Her head fell back and she sank down into soft, comforting blackness.
The music, the gentle harmonies, the crescendos, were playing again, she was dancing, spinning, her body moving with such grace, her arms floating. But her foot wasn’t working properly. She couldn’t do it. Sean frowned at her and she shook her head…
She was staring blindly at the moon. Not a sound. Not a breath of air. What was she doing there? And then she tried to move.
Her entire body seemed racked with pain, reality flooding back with all the might of a sledgehammer. Falling, her ankle on fire. And then she remembered. The men. Yankee soldiers. And she knew what had happened as something struck deep inside her like an arrow.
The brutal howl that escaped her lungs and cut through the still night was that of a wounded animal. And it wasn’t just the physical pain. The degradation, the shame, the vile humiliation of the heinous act that had been committed against her. She wanted to scream it away, rip it out of her. But she couldn’t. It was all a blur, but it had been done, an
d couldn’t be undone.
Oh, dear God, it was a nightmare. Couldn’t be real. Mustn’t be real. But she knew it was. With a tearing moan, she curled up on her side and waited for it all to go away.
One
April 1945
Evangeline Parker passed the Duke of Cambridge on the corner and turned into Banbury Street. Ooph, it was good to get home! She’d been queuing for what seemed hours for the week’s rations of tea, sugar, tinned food and what have you at the grocer’s, and then again for the few days’ rations of meat at the butcher’s and whatever fruit and veg was available at the greengrocer’s. She didn’t have the luxury of one of those things she believed were called a refrigerator. Just a lead-lined box with a marble shelf and a metal-mesh door to keep the flies out. So, at the end of the week, she’d have to queue all over again for fresh supplies for the weekend.
For all that, what did she have? From the butcher’s, a pig’s trotter – that her husband, Stan, liked but she could never stand – one kidney and a couple of slices of ox liver. There hadn’t even been any bacon or sausages available, and Old Willie would never have lied to her about that. She’d lived in the little backstreet near south-west London’s Battersea Park for virtually all of her fifty-nine years and had been a faithful customer and, she hoped, friend for most of her life, feeding her own growing family on his meat and nobody else’s.
Thank goodness spuds and bread weren’t on ration, even if the latter was the horrible, grey-coloured National Loaf. She’d managed to get their due ration of tea, sugar, butter and margarine OK, but the few ounces of cheese had come as a bright orange colour rather than the normal mousetrap, so she hoped it was going to be edible. Add to that a selection of vegetables – carrots, turnips and spring greens but sadly no onions – and their ration of tinned fruit, peas and spam, and somehow she’d have to feed her family on that for the next few days.
