I'll Get By
Table of Contents
Recent Titles by Janet Woods from Severn House
AMARANTH MOON
BROKEN JOURNEY
CINNAMON SKY
THE COAL GATHERER
EDGE OF REGRET
HEARTS OF GOLD
LADY LIGHTFINGERS
I’LL GET BY
MORE THAN A PROMISE
PAPER DOLL
SALTING THE WOUND
SECRETS AND LIES
THE STONECUTTER’S DAUGHTER
STRAW IN THE WIND
TALL POPPIES
WITHOUT REPROACH
Janet Woods
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Janet Woods.
The right of Janet Woods to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Woods, Janet, 1939-
I’ll get by.
1. Great Britain. Royal Navy. Women’s Royal Naval Service–
Fiction. 2. World War, 1939-1945–Women–Fiction.
3. Aristocracy (Social class)–Fiction. 4. World War,
1939-1945–Cryptography–Fiction. 5. Love stories.
I. Title
823.9’14-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8272-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-409-6 (epub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Welcome to
Taylor Charlene O’Connor
Born on 22nd October 2012.
Nice Timing, Taylor!
March, 1939
The damp breath of London pressed against Meggie Elliot’s skin. Scarf held over her mouth to prevent the vapours from invading her lungs, she shone the thin beam of her torch on the house numbers as she walked past them.
Every house looked the same, like soldiers on parade. The one the Thornton family rented stood shoulder to shoulder with its neighbours on either side, as did all the buildings in the street. Three steps bridged the basement and led into the porch.
‘Aunt Es lives along here somewhere,’ she muttered. At least, she had the last time Meggie had visited. And she was definitely in the right street.
The street lamps were far from comforting. They sprouted like gallows from the pavement into the fog, a mustard-coloured miasma. Though their arms lacked a hanging noose it didn’t take Meggie’s mind long to conjure up a couple of sinister corpses swinging back and forth. A glass helmet topped by a decorative spike protected a flickering flame of gaslight.
Jack the Ripper came to mind. Meggie shivered, crossing her fingers in front of her in the time-honoured gesture to ward off vampires. ‘Begone, else I’ll breathe garlic fumes all over you.’ She hoped that would dispose of ghosts as well.
Then she told herself, finding comfort in her own voice, ‘Jack the Ripper hasn’t committed a crime for forty years or so and is probably dead. Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.’ She placed her suitcase down, trying not to believe her own lie. Nevertheless, with her imagination travelling at full flood she felt exposed in the circle of lamplight while she checked the small map she’d made.
She yelped when a man appeared from the fog like a genie from a bottle.
‘Are you all right, miss?’
‘I was all right until you appeared, now I’m having a heart attack.’ She noticed his helmet and made a face. ‘Lord, you’re a bobby! Now I’m in trouble.’
‘Why is that . . . are you committing a crime?’
She relaxed. At least he sounded human. ‘Certainly not, but my mind jumped back to when I scrumped an apple as a child, and I felt guilty.’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’
‘Did you hear me talking to myself?’
‘About Jack the Ripper? No, I didn’t.’
She grinned. ‘Thank goodness for that.’ It was reassuring to note that the policeman was big enough to see off a dozen Rippers. More reassuring was the swift flash of a smile across his face. She waited until the panicky clang of her heart settled to its reassuring, regular tick, and, resisting the urge to turn and run like a rabbit, said, ‘I was looking for number forty-three.’
‘It’s an odd number, so it’s on the other side of the road, and forty-three is in the opposite direction to where you were facing. Do you know somebody who lives there?’
‘My aunt and uncle do. I should have got a taxicab from Waterloo station, really, but the rank was empty and there was a long queue, so I decided to go on the underground to save money. I’ve never travelled on it by myself before, and it was like being a ferret down a burrow. Not that I’ve ever been a ferret . . . or even been down a burrow, come to that.’
‘Quite,’ he said.
But Meggie hadn’t finished relating her actions. ‘Then somebody told me that the train didn’t go to this area, and I’d have to get off at Highgate and catch a bus. When I got off it was misty, and it just got thicker, and I walked and walked for what seemed like miles, until I eventually found the street. I got a bit disorientated and then you came out of the fog just when I was thinking about Jack the Ripper. You gave me quite a start.’
‘And no wonder.’ He sounded slightly bemused when he picked up her case. ‘All the same, ferret or not, I can’t leave you wandering around in the fog by yourself. Come on, I’ll see you safely to your destination. What’s the name of your aunt?’
‘Esmé Thornton. Her husband is Doctor Leo Thornton. They’re very respectable.’ She hesitated, reluctant to mention her relatives, no matter how law-abiding and honest they were. ‘You’re not Jack the Ripper disguised as a policeman, are you?’
His laughter was spontaneous but relaxed, and it had a pleasant low rumble to it like far off thunder. She couldn’t see all of his face. Shaded by the helmet, which was a little on the large side, only his mouth and chin were visible. He looked fit, and appeared to be fairly young. His voice was deep and yummy . . . rather posh.
‘You’ve got a vivid imagination, miss, but I can’t say I blame you in this fog. Don’t worry. Jack the Ripper doesn’t operate in this part of town; he prefers Whitechapel. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen. You must think I’m stupid. Don’t you ever lose your way in the fog?’
‘I grew up around here, so not often. The police station is just around the corner, and no, I don’t think you’re stupid. It was only by chance that you chose a foggy evening in which to get lost.’ After a few minutes of walking in silence he turned into a porch, placed her suitcase down and rang the bell before moving back on to the pavement. ‘Here you are then. The light is on. I’ll wait until you’re safely inside.’
‘Thank you, Constable . . .?’
‘Blessing . . . Sergeant Benjamin Blessing.’
He seemed to be rather young to be a sergeant, or even Jack the Ripper come to that. ‘What a wonderful, saintly name . . . are you one?’
‘Only on Sundays. Do you have a name?’
She laughed. ‘I’m Meggie Elliot. Actually, I’m Margaret Eloise Sinclair Sangster Elliot. I was adopted, you see. My real father was a war hero called Richard Sangster.’
She didn’t realize that the door had opened behind her until she heard her aunt laugh and say, ‘Meggie, I believe you’ve confused the poor man enough.’ She glanced at the policeman’s chevrons. ‘I do hope she hasn’t been chattering, Sergeant. You could have let yourself in, Meggie.’
He gazed past Meggie’s shoulder to where her aunt stood, and smiled, a brief, appreciative flash of white teeth.
Men always smiled at Aunt Esmé, she was
too
beautiful for words. At the moment her long legs were captured in a pair of beige slacks, and she wore a baby pink jumper and a long matching cardigan with pearl buttons. Although her aunt was not very tall – Meggie was half-a-head taller – she was slender in a way that suggested elegance rather than fragility and had long shapely legs. Her hair was a bob of glossy brown waves and Meggie wished she looked just like her.
Her observation of her aunt was disturbed by the rumble of the policeman’s voice, ‘Just a little, ma’am, and I’m not in the least bit confused.’
Meggie’s interest was piqued. ‘I expect you get heaps of information from encouraging people to talk, that way you learn who all the crooks are.’
A small sigh escaped from him. ‘Some people don’t need any encouragement to talk, but you’re right . . . you do learn a lot from them.’
‘You mean me, I suppose.’ She shrugged and turned to her aunt. ‘This is Sergeant Benjamin Blessing who kindly rescued me, but now wishes he hadn’t, because he now can’t wait to get rid of me.’
His chuckle had a touch of spice to it. ‘I didn’t say that, miss.’
‘You gave a long-suffering sigh, which meant almost the same thing.’
‘It’s because I
am
long-suffering. I’ve just finished a ten-hour shift, with only a corned beef sandwich for lunch, and my mother will be waiting with my dinner.’
A sweet little old lady sitting in a parlour, her hair in a straggly grey bun, and with a ginger cat on her lap came inconveniently to Meggie’s mind. ‘Poor you, I expect you’re as ravenous as a werewolf. This is my aunt I told you about, Mrs Esmé Thornton.’
Esmé cut in smoothly, ‘Thank you for bringing my niece home. I was getting a little worried, and was just about to ring her parents in Dorset to see if she was on her way.’
‘I’m pleased to be of help, ma’am. Good evening Mrs Thornton, and to you too, Miss Margaret Eloise Sinclair Sangster Elliot . . . Meggie for short.’
She laughed. ‘You do have a wonderful memory. You must drop in for morning tea sometime, then you can tell me all about being a policeman. I’m sure my aunt wouldn’t mind. You won’t mind, will you, Aunt Es? Wednesday would be a good day?’
‘Wednesday is my day off and we’re going shopping, so nobody will be in. Friday would be better, my husband will be home then.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Friday also happens to be my day off.’
He turned, and three steps saw him swallowed by the fog. It struck Meggie as odd that he was wearing brown shoes with his uniform. ‘Abracadabra! What a wonderful disappearing act,’ she called after him.
Esmé took her by the arm. ‘Let’s get this door shut before the house fills with fog. It stinks.’ When they were inside they exchanged a hug, and then Esmé held her at arm’s length and gazed at her, head to one side, and smiling. ‘You look wonderful Meggie Moo . . . so grown up. How is everyone?’
‘They are all well, as usual. My stepfather is working his fingers to the bone. Luke is taking an interest in girls, and invited that horsey looking creature for Sunday high tea. Angela, I think she’s called. Luke pushed Adam to the floor when he teased him about her, and accused him of being jealous. Adam went all red. They began to wrestle a bit and rolled down the stairs to the first landing. Daddy had just come home and had to separate them. They were breathing out cinders and flames, just like dragons.’
When Meggie dragged in a breath to replace the expended one, Esmé slid in a chuckle. ‘Nothing’s changed then.’
‘Anyway, the boys didn’t speak to each other for days. Then Angela started making eyes at Philip Slattery. Luke walked around with a face as long as a donkey’s tail for a while.
‘Then on his day off Daddy took the boys into his study and gave them a serious man-to-man talk that started off, “Now listen to me, gentlemen. I will not have this behaviour.”
‘
Gentlemen!’
she snorted. ‘I was listening at the keyhole. I gathered that the process of becoming a man is just as fraught as one becoming a woman. Now they keep looking in the mirror to see who gets the first whisker growing on their chins. How absolutely pathetic of them. Luke’s bound to win, since he’s two years older.’