While We're Apart

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Ellie Dean

Title Page

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

Copyright

It is 1942 and England is at war.

Mary Jones has just celebrated her eighteenth birthday and said goodbye to her childhood sweetheart Jack, when she learns that a bombing raid has killed her parents and destroyed her home.

Her father's trunk is still intact amid the ruins, and Mary discovers a shocking secret amongst his diaries.

Mary travels to Cliffehaven on the south coast in search of answers. Here she is billeted with Peggy Reilly's fearsome sister, Doris. When warm-hearted Peggy befriends Mary, she learns of the young woman's secret.

But Peggy begins to regret getting involved, for there can only be trouble ahead ...

While We're Apart
is Ellie Dean's eighth novel. She lives in a tiny hamlet set deep in the heart of the South Downs in Sussex, which has been her home for many years and where she raised her three children. To find out more visit
www.ellie-dean.co.uk

There'll be Blue Skies

Far From Home

Keep Smiling Through

Where the Heart Lies

Always in My Heart

All My Tomorrows

Some Lucky Day

 

 

IT WAS MARY
Jones's eighteenth birthday but, as usual, it was a day like any other. She had received a hastily scrawled card and an absent-minded hug from her father, but there had been no acknowledgement of the occasion by her mother.

Mary flicked her long dark hair back from her face, determinedly suppressed her disappointment and walked quickly down the narrow country lane, the weight of her laden shopping basket dragging on her arm. It wasn't the lack of gifts that upset her, for at the rectory they were exchanged only at Christmas – it was her mother's cool disinterest towards her. She should be inured to it by now, and yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite manage not to be hurt by it, and that neediness for Emmaline's love and approval made her fretful.

She plodded along the rough lane in her wellingtons as fast as she could for it was a bitterly cold morning, the wind scything across the empty patchwork of fields and the South Downs. She could feel the cut of it on her face and in her unshed tears, and she paused for a moment to dry her eyes, tuck her hair into her coat collar and wrap the knitted scarf more firmly round her neck and over her mouth. She'd been queuing for almost half an hour outside the village grocery shop, and now her hands and feet were numb with the cold despite her gloves, thick coat and woollen socks.

As she picked up the basket again and headed for home, she gazed out beyond the hedgerows to the iron-hard ploughed fields and the distant South Downs which undulated beneath a leaden sky. She had lived here all her life, and although she had no real wish to leave these familiar surroundings, there had been moments recently when she'd begun to yearn for something more – something different, perhaps even exciting, that would take her to new horizons. And now she was eighteen there was a distinct possibility that this might happen, for she was no longer a student, and if she didn't decide quickly on what she wanted to do for the war effort, she would be assigned a job by the recruitment people.

Her thoughts were in a whirl as she tramped along, for there were several possibilities, even for someone as unsophisticated and inexperienced as she was. She could become a land girl and stay in the village to work with Jack Boniface on his father's farm, which would mean they could see more of each other. However, even the allure of being with her darling Jack every day didn't make the job any more appealing, for she knew how tough it was to be up before dawn and out in all weathers until after dark. The Land Army needed a special breed of worker, and very few of the city girls, who'd had no idea of what they'd let themselves in for, had lasted more than a few weeks – and neither would she.

As for office work – she didn't know one end of a typewriter from the other, and shorthand was a complete mystery. The idea of working in a factory didn't really appeal either, although according to her best friend, Pat Logan, who caught the factory bus every morning with a group of other village girls, it was great fun and paid very well. It was also, she'd told Mary, a good way to make friends and see a bit of life at the parties and dances that were frequently held in the town for the allied servicemen. But Pat had few responsibilities at home, was confident enough to meet new people and experience new things, and her mother didn't seem to mind her going to dances and staying out late.

Mary paused again, gave a deep sigh and shifted the basket to her other hand. The only real talent she had was for singing and playing the piano – which wasn't exactly of much use to the war effort – and her parents disapproved of her doing either unless it was in the schoolroom or the church. With a frown of anxiety, she continued walking and tried to dispel this sense of uselessness by concentrating on her surroundings.

The village of Harebridge Green sprawled between the farms and woodlands of East Sussex. The narrow lane running through it like a frayed grey ribbon led to the nearby market town of Hillney in the east, and the hamlet of Gorse Green to the west. Yet its isolation hadn't protected it, for it lay beneath the flight path of the enemy bombers on their way to London and the Midlands, and there were numerous reminders of that in the craters in the fields, the bullet holes scarring the walls of the Saxon church, and the shattered remains of a farmhouse and barn that had taken a direct hit.

Mary again heaved the basket from one hand to the other, wishing fervently that she'd mended the puncture on her bike so this journey would have been easier, but what with one thing and another, there just hadn't been time. She trudged along past the village green, the shuttered and locked pub, the cottages, the abandoned village school and empty playground. The village didn't feel the same without the sound of children playing, but after the first two serious tip-and-runs, it had been decided to evacuate them to somewhere safer.

Mary's low spirits ebbed further, for she'd always wanted to be a teacher and she'd enjoyed helping the local schoolmistress with the little ones, and getting them to sing along while she played the rather tinny upright piano. Now it was rarely used and badly out of tune, and she suspected it would remain as silent as the church bells until this war was over.

She had just begun her teacher training in September, when the college in Hillney took a direct hit one night during an enemy raid. With the children gone, and her teaching course brought to an abrupt end, she was feeling adrift, and although she had thought of applying for another assistant teaching post elsewhere, she suspected her youth and lack of qualifications would count against her.

Of course she could continue her interrupted studies and get her teaching certificate, but it would mean a very long bus or train journey each day to the nearest big town, which she simply couldn't afford. The thought of trying again to persuade her elderly father to help pay for accommodation in college digs was just too discouraging. He was now almost seventy and very stuck in his ways, and although her mother, for once, had supported her plea, he'd refused even to contemplate the idea when she'd approached him before, deeming it dangerous and not at all respectable for a young woman to live so far from home. Mary knew all too well that once he'd made up his mind about something, nothing could change it.

She paused again to put down the heavy basket. It was all very well trying to plan ahead, or dream of new horizons, but the reality of her situation meant that she'd probably be stuck here for the foreseeable future. Her father had three parishes under his care since the old vicar of Gorse Green had died, and he relied on her to help him with his pastoral duties now that Emmaline's health had deteriorated. And then there was the rambling great rectory to manage – a task beyond both her ageing parents, and one that even she found daunting.

‘Penny for them.'

Mary's heart missed a beat and she turned with a smile to face the tall brown-haired, dark-eyed young man who strode towards her in his shabby working clothes and mud-encrusted boots. ‘Jack! Where did you spring from? I didn't hear you.'

His eyes twinkled as he pulled off his worn cap and stuffed it into the pocket of his rather grubby corduroy trousers. ‘You were miles away,' he replied in his soft Sussex burr. He took a step closer and looked with affection into her uplifted face before he reached for the basket. ‘Let me take that,' he said quietly. ‘It looks heavy.'

Mary quickly glanced over her shoulder to make sure they weren't in sight of the rectory or the local gossip. ‘Just for a bit then,' she replied. ‘If Mother sees us there'll be trouble, and she's in a bad enough mood with me already this morning.'

His expression darkened as it always did when Mary mentioned her mother, but he made no comment, for they both knew nothing would change Emmaline Jones's puzzling, almost dismissive attitude towards her daughter. He gently took her arm. ‘Come on. Let's get out of this wind and spend a few minutes together.'

She hesitated before letting him lead her across the ice-encrusted mud puddles to the five-bar gate that opened into a field and the shelter of the thick hedgerow. Her mother disapproved of Jack and would be furious if she heard they'd been seen alone together, but Mary had loved him ever since they'd shared a desk at the village infant school, and she was willing to risk Emmaline's wrath for the pleasure of being alone with him for a few precious minutes.

They found a dry hummock of grass within the shelter of the hedge and sat down, the basket at their feet. He took her gloved hand in his and looked deeply into her cornflower-blue eyes before he softly kissed her cold lips. ‘Happy birthday, Mary.'

Mary savoured his sweet kiss, for it warmed her on this bitter day. ‘It is happy now I can be with you for a while,' she murmured shyly as they drew apart. ‘But I daren't stay too long. I'm already later than I said I'd be.'

He wrapped his strong arm round her shoulders and held her close as he kissed the top of her head. ‘A few minutes more won't do any harm, and I have something for you,' he said as he fished in his jacket pocket and handed over a small brown paper package.

Her eyes widened. ‘A present? For me?'

His boyish grin made him look younger than nineteen. ‘Well, you're the only one who's got a birthday today, aren't you? Go on, open it.'

She was all fingers and thumbs as she undid the knotted string and drew back the paper to reveal a small box. With eager anticipation she opened it and gasped with delight, for nestled within the velvet lining was a gold locket and chain.

‘Oh, Jack, it's beautiful.' She held it up and let the long chain dangle from her fingers. ‘But it must have cost an awful lot, and you really shouldn't have.'

‘Why not?' he said as he took it from her and, after finding a way through the scarf, long hair and coat collar, fastened it round her neck so it hung almost to her waist. ‘You're my special girl, and only the very best will do on her birthday.'