Home Front Girls
Home Front Girls
Other titles by Rosie Goodwin
The Bad Apple
No One’s Girl
Dancing Till Midnight
Moonlight and Ashes
Forsaken
Our Little Secret
Crying Shame
Yesterday’s Shadows
The Boy from Nowhere
A Rose Among Thorns
The Lost Soul
The Ribbon Weaver
A Band of Steel
Whispers
The Misfit
The Empty Cradle
Tilly Trotter’s Legacy
The Mallen Secret
The Sand Dancer
Rosie Goodwin
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
First published in the UK by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2013
Copyright © Rosie Goodwin, 2013
The right of Rosie Godwin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or 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.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-100-6 (hardback edition)
ISBN: 978-1-47210-101-3 (paperback edition)
ISBN: 978-1-47210-102-0 (ebook)
Printed and bound in the UK
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For Yasmin, my faithful, loving little companion for sixteen years. I hope you are happy and playing with your mum in doggy heaven. I miss you. xxxxx
A huge thank-you to Victoria, Martin and everyone at Constable & Robinson for making me feel so very welcome. Also my lovely editor Sheila Crowley and the brilliant Joan Deitch, my copy-editor, who is so wonderful at picking up on any mistakes I may have made!
Not forgetting my dear friend Jane and everyone at ‘The Thursday Club’ at the Mary Anne Evans hospice who tried to come up with a title for this book.
And, last but never least, to my family for their ongoing patience each time I disappear into my study.
Coventry, November 1939
‘I’m sorry, darling, but the long and the short of it is, you will have to find yourself a job immediately.’
‘What!’
Annabelle Smythe’s beautiful blue eyes stretched wide with horror as she stared back at her mother, who was nervously wringing her hands. They were in Annabelle’s bedroom and the young woman leaped up and began to pace up and down the length of the soft flowered carpet as her pure silk dressing-gown swirled about her slim legs. Annabelle was twenty years old and had never done a day’s work in her entire life. Nor did she intend to. The only child of wealthy parents, she had been indulged in everything she had ever wanted from the moment her mother had held her in her arms, and she was not going to let that change now.
‘But why, Mummy?’ she whined as she raised a perfectly plucked, pencilled eyebrow. ‘Is it the latest clothing bill I ran up in town yesterday? I know I was a little extravagant, but I won’t do it again, I promise. It’s just that after I’d bought the new dress I had to have shoes and a handbag to go with it – and a coat, of course, didn’t I? And if what people are saying is true, then it’s going to be very hard to get hold of any decent clothes soon and you wouldn’t want me to walk about like a tramp, would you?’ She gazed at her mother imploringly.
‘Oh, Annabelle!’ Miranda Smythe sank down onto the bedroom chair, which was upholstered in a soft pink colour to match the bedding and the curtains. ‘You must realise, surely, that the war has affected Daddy’s business badly. People aren’t buying luxury cars any more and the thing is . . . Well, the truth of the matter is – we’re struggling a little bit.’
‘Hmph!’ Annabelle snatched a silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing-table and began to yank it through her shoulder-length blonde hair, which only that afternoon had been primped and teased into marcel waves at a hairdresser’s in the city centre. ‘Is that why you’ve sacked Mrs Fitton? It’s going to be horrible now, having no one to do our washing and ironing.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ her mother replied as patiently as she could. She adored her daughter and would have walked over hot coals for her if need be, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wondered if she hadn’t spoiled her just a little too much. However, now she had started she ploughed on, ‘And you may as well know, Mrs Brookes will be finishing at the end of the week too.’
‘What!
But who will do the cleaning and cooking then?’
‘We shall have to learn to do it ourselves,’ her mother replied steadily.
‘You must be joking, Mother!’ Annabelle spluttered, utterly horrified. She was not capable even of boiling an egg, and the thought of having to do menial things like cleaning and cooking was more than she could comprehend.
‘You have to accept that the war is affecting everyone, darling. We have been very lucky up to now, but we must all make sacrifices. I’m sure we shall manage admirably once we get into some sort of a routine. After all – how hard can it be?’
Annabelle glared at her mother as she slammed the hairbrush back down, barely able to take in this unwelcome news. Her mother had always been so easy to get round. Usually the girl had only to drop her bottom lip and pout, and Miranda would give in to her every demand. But here she was now, telling her that she must learn to do her own cleaning and cooking
as well
as getting a job! It was preposterous! They had never taught her how to do domestic tasks at the expensive schools Daddy had sent her to. Needlework and piano lessons were the most gruelling things she had ever had to tackle up to now.
‘And just what sort of a job do you expect me to do?’ she snapped as she threw herself onto the bed.
‘Well, as it happens I heard that they are looking for staff in Owen Owen. You might enjoy shop work,’ her mother added hopefully.
Annabelle couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to bow and scrape to awkward customers. She herself had often given shop staff a hard time; making them run here and there for things she wanted to look at, and now here was her mother daring to suggest that the roles should be reversed.
‘I don’t think Daddy would be too happy with your suggestions,’ she spat peevishly.
‘Actually . . . it was Daddy’s idea.’
Annabelle felt the bottom drop out of her world. She had been praying that at any second her mother would chuckle and tell her it had all been a silly joke, but one glance at Miranda’s pale face told her that she was dreadfully serious.
‘And what if I refuse?’
Her mother shrugged. ‘Then there would be little we could do to force you to go out to work. But I’m not at all sure how you would manage. You see, Daddy can’t afford to give you your allowance any more.’
This was the final straw and Annabelle scowled as her mother looked about the room and sighed. Yesterday’s lingerie littered the floor, and clothes that Annabelle had tried on earlier in the day then discarded were lying crumpled in the bottom of the wardrobe.
‘You perhaps ought to hang those back up,’ her mother suggested tentatively. ‘Now that Mrs Fitton has gone you will have to be responsible for your own washing and ironing too, and there’s no point in making unnecessary work for yourself.’
And with that the woman turned and walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind her as Annabelle stared after her. Throwing herself off the bed, she stormed to the window and flicked the snow-white net curtains aside to stare down gloomily into the tree-lined avenue where they lived in Cheylesmore in Coventry. It was one of the very best areas in the city, and the home she had grown up in was magnificent – a rambling Victorian four-bedroom detached house set in half an acre that had been tastefully furnished from top to bottom by her mother. A sweeping drive led up to the heavy oak door, and on it was parked her father’s gleaming Triumph. Annabelle smirked. That would give people something to talk about, if her father were to drop her off at some shabby workplace in
that.
But now as she calmed down a little she was sure that it wouldn’t come to that. She would give it half an hour and then go downstairs and turn the tears on, and all this silly nonsense would be forgotten. She had always been able to wrap her father around her little finger before, so why should now be any different?
Humming to herself, she began to rummage through her wardrobe again to find the new dress. She must wear something decent at tonight’s party at her friend’s house. It was Jessica’s eighteenth and if her dishy brother, James, was going to be there, Annabelle was determined she would look her best. Sadly, since the war had started there had been a shortage of young men, since a lot of them had already been called up. James had only missed it because of a minor heart defect, but Annabelle could live with that. He was one of the most eligible chaps she knew and his family were positively rich, occupying an even larger house than the Smythes. In a much happier frame of mind, she continued to rummage, taking no notice of her mother’s suggestion of hanging up her other clothes.
Downstairs, Miranda entered the drawing room to find her husband staring into the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand and a dejected expression on his face. He was worried for the future, for his family; the comfort they had always known was under threat. He glanced up as his wife entered the room and his face instantly softened as it always did when he caught sight of her. Even after twenty-four years of marriage he was as besotted with her as he had been on the first day he had set eyes on her.
‘How did she take it, darling?’ he asked as his wife crossed to the decanter standing on the highly polished mahogany sideboard to help herself to a small sherry.
Miranda sighed as she joined him. ‘Not well, I’m afraid – but then I think we expected that, didn’t we?’
At forty-three years old, Miranda was a striking-looking woman. Her hair was still a lovely shade of pale blonde with barely a grey hair in sight, her face was unlined and she had retained her slim figure. Annabelle’s hair was a darker shade of blonde and her eyes a deeper blue, but she was also a very beautiful young woman. Richard loved them both to distraction, although he was aware that the gossips said he had married above himself – which he knew to be the truth.
Richard Smythe was proud of the fact that he was a selfmade man. He had started life on a slum terrace on the other side of the city, and after leaving school at the earliest opportunity he had got taken on in the stables of a big house near Shilton, eventually graduating to the garage when his employer acquired a Hispana-Suiza. Years passed, and he left to work for an old gentleman who owned an automobile business. Sales boomed in the 1920s and by scrimping and saving, Richard eventually managed to buy the garage from the old gentleman who had trained him.