GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART
Pam Weaver

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Pam Weaver 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Trevillion Images

Pam Weaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008366193

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008366209

Version: 2020-04-17

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the GI father I never knew.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Acknowledgements

Keep reading to discover recipes inspired by the book and to read a special short story from Pam Weaver

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

One
Broadwater, Sussex, 1933

Ten-year-old Frankie Sherwood pulled her skirts over her bare legs and tucked her feet under her body. She was an attractive child with clear blue eyes and blonde hair. Although small for her age, what she lacked in height she made up for in her personality. A bright and determined girl, she always did her best. Pressing herself into the tree trunk, she felt the long grass swish back and surround her – but was she hidden enough? Her heart was racing. This was so exciting.

As she looked back the way she had come, Frankie saw her friend Jenny Ruddock standing to attention behind a tree. She would be easy to find. Doreen Toms had jumped into a ditch so she was well hidden. Further down in the more open space, Frankie’s mother was still counting. ‘Nine, ten, eleven …’

The long bramble branch Frankie had lifted in order to tuck herself right into the hollow of the tree flopped back down. That was a bit of luck. Now she was completely enclosed behind the green leaves and its blackberries, but all the same, she breathed in to make herself even smaller.

Frankie grinned to herself. What a wonderful birthday she was having. For a start, it was a beautiful day. The late summer sun was warm. A bee flew by making a soft humming noise. Somewhere in the open space, a bird sang and in the far distance, a dog, probably out for a walk with its owner, barked happily. Frankie loved it up here on Hillbarn with its wide open spaces surrounded by trees and bushes. Mummy had told her that long ago the Worthing Rotary Club had given the land to the Corporation for the local football club who had created five football pitches. The rest of the land was for the locals but she and mummy might not be able to walk around much longer because there was talk of creating a golf course. Thank goodness it hadn’t happened yet. The other reason why she was happy was because Mrs Ruddock had helped mummy to carry some picnic food in a big bag along with a grey blanket.

Frankie liked Mrs Ruddock. She was about the same age as mummy but she didn’t go out to work. Mrs Ruddock did a lot of swimming in the sea. The family had a beach chalet near Splash Point in Worthing and in the summer she asked Frankie if she would like to come so that Jenny had someone to play with. That was fun and it didn’t even matter if it rained.

Mrs Toms, on the other hand, didn’t join in anything much but mummy said not to say anything probably because Mrs Toms didn’t have a lot of money. Frankie felt sorry about that, but Mrs Toms wasn’t a very nice lady. When they were carrying the things for the picnic, Mrs Toms said she was nobody’s skivvy and would only carry the flasks and the lemonade. They had set down the blanket and enjoyed fish paste sandwiches and egg and salad cream sandwiches together. Then, while the three girls ran around, the mums spent a pleasant hour relaxing in the sunshine. When Frankie and her friends grew bored, they had left the other mums on the blanket having a chin-wag, while Frankie’s mum joined them in a game of hide and seek.

‘Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …’

Frankie couldn’t resist moving the bramble branch over a bit. Now she could see her mother. She stood with her back to them, her head up and her hands covering her eyes.

‘Twenty-six, twenty-seven …’

Frankie felt a surge of love and pride. An attractive thirty-four-year-old, Moira Sherwood worked hard to keep a roof over their heads. As a dressmaker she was hugely popular and as a result she was busy, busy, busy. Sometimes it felt as though people were coming to the house for fittings all day long. And why not? Moira could turn her hand to anything: wedding dresses, dresses for bridesmaids, even school uniforms; there was always a half-finished garment either on the dressmaker’s dummy or hanging from the picture rail. Sometimes she altered men’s clothing as well – a trouser leg which was too long or a jacket sleeve which needed to be invisibly mended. She didn’t always charge them for it. If they were down on their luck or something she’d say, ‘Pay me when you can.’ Mummy never minded helping people out, although Doreen said her mum said it wasn’t seemly. Frankie had no idea what that meant but it didn’t sound very nice to say it. Mummy often worked long into the night to get an order ready and when that happened, she didn’t have time to play games or to tell Frankie one of the lovely stories about her colourful life. But today was different. When they’d got up that morning, mummy said whatever needed to be done could jolly well wait. Today was September 3rd, Frankie’s tenth birthday. Today was the day she went into double figures and that made it extra special.

‘Thirty-nine, forty …’

Even though mummy was so busy, Frankie had a happy childhood. She was surrounded by people she loved and all mummy’s clients were nice to her. All except young Mr Knight. Old Mr Knight had been their landlord and years ago he’d been daddy’s teacher in school. Frankie would have liked to have known a little more about her father but she didn’t like to ask. Daddy had died in 1925 when Frankie was just over a year old. Mummy said he’d got a weak chest and he’d caught the noo-moan-ea. Mummy had loved him very much and she always said he’d adored Frankie, but Frankie couldn’t even remember him. Sometimes when mummy talked about daddy, she would shut herself away afterwards, and have a little cry, so Frankie kept her thoughts to herself. And now she would never even know about daddy’s school days because, earlier this year, old Mr Knight had died and young Mr Knight had taken over.

‘Forty-nine, fifty,’ her mother called, ‘I’m coming, ready or not.’

Frankie shivered with excitement and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. After a few seconds she could hear her mother’s footsteps coming closer. She held her breath. Perhaps the hiding place she’d chosen wasn’t so good after all. A wave of disappointment surged through her at the thought and although she stayed perfectly still, she quite expected her mother to tap her on the shoulder at any moment.

‘I see you, Jenny,’ her mother called and Frankie heard Jenny groan as she emerged from behind the tree. Frankie held her breath again as her mother’s footsteps came right up to her, but then to her utter joy, her mother moved on!

‘Frankie,’ she called, ‘where are you? And I can’t think where Doreen is hiding. She must be somewhere around here.’

On the picnic blanket, the other mums chatted. Every now and then, snatches of conversation drifted towards Frankie. It was all a bit boring: the price of coal and how difficult it was to get it at summer prices and Mr Ruddock’s boil which kept him away from his chemist shop for three days.

‘I’ve asked Mrs Sherwood to make Jenny some gym slips for school,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘She’s very good.’

‘I don’t want my Doreen to have anything home-made,’ Mrs Toms said sniffily.

Frankie struggled not to giggle as she saw her mother walking on up towards the top of the lane where the fabulous views of the Downs spread out for miles. Hillbarn was on the outskirts of Worthing, in an area north of the village of Broadwater and surrounded by farm land. In days gone by, the village had been a focal point for Easter Fairs and a June Fair when people came from miles around. Broadwater Green itself had been the home of cricket since the beginning of the eighteenth century and somebody called W.G. Grace, who was, apparently, very famous a long time ago, had played there. Frankie had learned all that at school, and men still played cricket on the green.

A moment later, her mother must have turned back because Frankie heard her say, ‘Ah, there you are, pickle! How clever you are. I was looking everywhere.’

She lifted the bramble branch and Frankie stood up. ‘The only one I can’t find is Doreen,’ said Moira. Frankie and Jenny looked at each other and grinned. Moira began to search once more. ‘I see you,’ said Moira at last and Doreen emerged from the ditch. ‘I hope you haven’t got wet.’

Fortunately the ditch was bone dry and once mummy had brushed the dirt from Doreen’s knees, she was fine. Frankie’s friends ran back towards the picnic blanket where Mrs Ruddock was blowing smoke rings with her cigarette. Sitting a little apart, Mrs Toms watched her with pursed lips. A little later, they heard her scolding her daughter for hiding in the dirty ditch.

Before they went back to the others, Moira gave her daughter a hug and then said, ‘Just look at all those blackberries. Quick, Frankie, go back and ask the other mummies to bring the empty tin I used for the sandwiches. We must pick some while we’re up here. It would be a shame to miss out on an apple and blackberry pie.’

Everyone, except Mrs Toms and Doreen, spent the next twenty minutes or so picking the luscious blackberries. Some were as big as a penny and as far as Frankie was concerned, very few of the ones she’d picked ended up in the tin. Doreen wasn’t allowed any because her mother said you didn’t know what animal had been sniffing around them and it wasn’t healthy.

‘I had no idea there were so many up here,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘My mother-in-law is coming tomorrow for Sunday lunch. I shall get Mrs Brown to make a blackberry fool.’ Mrs Brown was her cleaning lady.

The girls were soon bored. The brambles scratched their arms and most of the berries were too high for them to reach. After a while they gave up and chased butterflies or picked wild flowers instead. All too soon, their mothers were saying it was time to go and they all trooped back to Frankie’s place, where her mother promised to make a pot of tea while Frankie opened her presents.

Doreen Toms had given her a magic painting book. ‘You only need to make your brush wet,’ Mrs Toms explained. ‘As soon as the water touches it, the colours come through.’

Frankie leafed through the pages of the book. It seemed very babyish.

‘I had one like that for Christmas,’ Doreen remarked and her mother flashed her a dark look. Doreen didn’t seem to notice because she added, ‘but I lost it.’

Doreen was almost jolted out of her chair by her mother’s elbow.

‘What do you say?’ Moira reminded her daughter as she passed the cups of tea around.

‘Thank you,’ Frankie said dutifully.

As Moira sat with her own cup she rubbed her arm.

‘Are you in pain?’ Mrs Ruddock asked, concerned.

Moira shook her head. ‘Bit achy, that’s all. Probably all that reaching up for those blackberries.’

Jenny’s present was a hair slide with little green rhinestones on it. She also gave Frankie three different pieces of coloured ribbon for her hair. Frankie smiled. ‘Ooh, thank you,’ she said, holding up the red ribbon.

‘That will go perfectly with the jumper Aunt Bet sent in the post,’ her mother remarked.

‘Thank you,’ said Frankie, holding still for her mother to fasten the hair slide.

It was then that mummy handed Frankie a shoe box tied with pink ribbon. ‘And this is from me,’ she said.

Frankie’s eyes lit up. Her friends stared enviously as she slid the ribbon carefully from the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a doll. Not just any old doll but a beautiful dolly dressed in an exquisite pale blue satin dress. As Frankie lifted it from the box, she heard a collective gasp.

‘Oh, Moira,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘Did you dress it yourself? It’s gorgeous.’

Rubbing the top of her left arm again, Moira gave them a nod. ‘I’ve been saving the material for ages.’

Everyone knew nothing was wasted as far as Moira Sherwood was concerned. Her clients bought the material for their garments and once it had been cut and sewn, any pieces left over, big or small, went into a pillowcase Moira kept hanging on the door for the purpose. From those same pieces she would make baby clothes for the new born, cot quilts, pram covers, even the odd patchwork cushion cover. This doll was exceptional. The women could see the love which had gone into every stitch. Frankie lifted her skirts to reveal some pale pink pantaloons (bridesmaid’s material), a silk petticoat (from an alteration of an evening dress into a cocktail dress), a pale blue satin skirt (from the nightdress of someone’s wedding trousseau), a white broderie anglaise blouse with blue ribbon on the cuffs and a ruffle at the neck (made from bits which had been in the pillowcase for so long that Moira had forgotten where they came from), and, finally, a neatly embroidered waistcoat with tiny glass buttons down the front. Frankie held her up to her face and kissed the doll’s lips. She had fallen in love with her the minute she’d set eyes on her. She was so beautiful. ‘She’s my Russian princess.’

Everyone glanced admiringly at Moira but she only had eyes for her daughter. ‘I thought you would say that,’ she smiled.

‘Russian princess?’ Mrs Ruddock repeated.

‘Frankie loves to hear the story of the time I made an ensemble for the Princess Alexeievna,’ said Moira, the exotic name slipping easily off her tongue.

‘What, a princess came here? To Worthing?’ Mrs Toms asked breathlessly.

‘No,’ said Moira with a chuckle. ‘It was a long time ago when I was working in London. She came to the dressmaker where I trained.’

‘Are you sure she was a real princess?’ said Mrs Ruddock.

Moira nodded. ‘Not only that, but she was very beautiful as well. She still is. I saw her picture in a magazine not so long ago. Of course, she’s married now, to a Baron von somebody-or-other. Bit of a come-down, I suppose, but considering what happened to the rest of the Russian royal family soon after she arrived in this country, I guess you could say she got off lightly.’

Everyone was spell-bound. Frankie ran her fingers over the dolly’s skirt, the waistcoat and the tiny little buttons, wondering if some of the older materials could have belonged to the Russian princess. The doll’s straw hat was decorated with tiny pieces of wax fruit. Could that have been hers? No, now she thought about it, she recalled seeing the same fruit on a pretty jewellery case her mother made for someone’s twenty-first birthday. Apparently the client was going to fill the case with family heirlooms: a string of pearls which belonged to the girl’s grandmother, a ring belonging to an old aunt, and some earrings her mother had worn on her wedding day. Right there and then, Frankie made up her mind that this dolly would be her family heirloom. She would play with it, of course, but she would be very, very careful.

‘Tell them about when the bad man came for the princess, Mummy,’ Frankie said, looking up at her mother.

‘I’m sure nobody wants to hear about that,’ her mother said, pouring herself another cup of tea.

‘Oh, please do,’ Mrs Ruddock interrupted. ‘Go on, Moira. This is fascinating.’

‘I don’t hold with them foreigners,’ Mrs Toms said. She might not have been as well off as the others but that didn’t stop her from being a sour-faced woman not averse to expressing her opinions, no matter how abrasive they might be. ‘It’s not right, them helping themselves to what’s ours.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Moira blew out her cheeks and put her fist to her chest.

‘You all right, love?’ interrupted Mrs Ruddock. ‘You look a bit pale.’

‘Touch of indigestion, that’s all,’ Moira said dismissively.

‘While the princess was in the fitting room,’ Frankie began, her eyes glistening with excitement. ‘A man in a great big fur hat came to the shop. As soon as the princess heard his voice she was very scared, wasn’t she, Mummy? They had to hide her in a big basket.’

The two women gave Moira a quizzical look.

Moira went on. ‘Like I said, it was a long time ago. The Princess Natalia Alexeievna wanted a wedding trousseau. When she came to the workshop, the only clothes she had were what she stood up in.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ Mrs Toms remarked. ‘I always thought people like them were rolling in it.’

‘I read somewhere,’ said Mrs Ruddock, ‘that when they lined that Czar Nicholas and his family against the wall and shot them, the bullets ricocheted from their bodices because of the precious stones hidden inside the seams. It was a regular blood bath, so I’m told.’

Doreen let out an audible gasp.

‘Do you mind,’ Mrs Toms scolded. ‘Remember the children.’

Quick to apologise, Mrs Ruddock blushed. ‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t know why you feel sorry for them,’ said Mrs Toms. ‘They treat their people like dirt and they’re full of superstition and devil worship.’

‘Come, come,’ said Moira. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as that.’

‘So did your princess have precious stones in her bodice?’ Mrs Ruddock asked.

Moira looked away, as if the truth was being dragged reluctantly from her, then nodded. ‘Not only diamonds and freshwater pearls but an emerald or two as well. It was my job to unpick the seams without spoiling her clothes.’

‘Go on,’ Mrs Ruddock gasped incredulously.

‘The workshop was in London near a rough area they called Little Russia,’ said Moira. ‘And this Bolshevik burst through the front of the shop demanding to know where the princess was. We were all terrified. Even Madam said he looked very frightening.’

‘Did someone go for the police?’ Mrs Toms asked.

Moira let out a hollow laugh. ‘You’d be lucky to find one. It was so bad around there that the police had to walk around in twos. Anyway, like Frankie said, I shoved her into the big linen basket and we all covered her over with material.’

With a look of horror on her face, Mrs Toms clutched at her throat.

‘The other girls distracted him while I wheeled the princess down to the boiler room in the basement,’ Moira went on. ‘We left her under the covers, praying to her favourite saint.’

Mrs Toms tutted disapprovingly.

‘Sounds like something out of a book,’ said Mrs Ruddock.

Moira smiled mysteriously.

Mrs Ruddock’s eyes widened. ‘But did she survive?’

‘Oh yes,’ Moira said. ‘Soon after that, she set sail for New York on the Cunard ship Berengaria. I went down to Southampton to wave her off.’

‘I hope she gave you something for saving her life,’ Mrs Ruddock remarked.

Moira shrugged absent-mindedly and looked down at her fingernails. ‘Why should she? I only did what anyone else would do.’

‘How disappointing,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘You know, when you first came to Broadwater, I heard a rumour that you’d got a stash of jewellery hidden somewhere.’

‘Did you really?’ Moira teased.

‘You could have easily kept a diamond or two,’ said Mrs Toms. ‘Who would know?’

Moira looked her straight in the eye. ‘I would know, Mrs Toms,’ she said tetchily. ‘I’ll have you know, I’m an honest woman.’ Embarrassed, Mrs Toms looked away. ‘Besides,’ Moira went on in a more relaxed tone, ‘the princess knew exactly how many she’d got. We’d helped her count them.’

‘I still think she should have given you something,’ Mrs Ruddock said stoutly.

‘Well, she did offer me a job in America,’ said Moira. Glancing at Mrs Toms she added, ‘and she did give me a little box of something to steer me in the right direction in the future.’ Her gaze drifted towards the mantelpiece.

‘America!’ cried Mrs Ruddock. ‘Why on earth didn’t you go? If someone offered me a job in America I’d be off like a shot.’

Mrs Toms didn’t seem impressed. ‘That box looks like a set of tarot cards. You should throw them away,’ she said, nodding at the mantelpiece. ‘I wouldn’t want them in my house.’

‘Perhaps under different circumstances I might have gone to America,’ said Moira, ‘but by that time I’d promised to marry Frankie’s father.’ She gazed lovingly at her daughter. ‘I had made my choice and I have no regrets.’

‘You two had to wait a long time to get married, didn’t you?’ Mrs Ruddock observed.

‘Her father and I had to wait until I was twenty-one,’ said Moira. ‘That was two years after the war. Besides, Ernie was injured in the trenches. He was a sick man. He needed time to recover.’

Mrs Ruddock pulled a face. ‘Mustard gas?’

Moira nodded. ‘He was in a sanatorium for most of the first three years of our marriage.’

Mrs Ruddock looked away. ‘Poor devil.’

‘See? What did I tell you? You should have got rid of those tarot cards,’ Mrs Toms said staring at the mantelpiece again. ‘Witchcraft and divination are the sins of Jezebel.’

The door suddenly burst open. ‘Good God,’ a man’s voice boomed. ‘Haven’t you hens finished clucking yet?’

Frankie jumped out of her skin and at that point the party broke up. Nobody bothered to ask who the man was. They all knew young Mr Knight and they knew he was Moira’s landlord. If Mrs Toms and Mrs Ruddock wondered why he’d walked in uninvited and in such an over-familiar manner, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Mrs Ruddock rose to her feet. Young Mr Knight belched loudly and sat in her chair, making himself very much at home as he helped himself to a piece of cake and pulled an empty cup towards him.

Mrs Toms looked down her nose. ‘You disgusting man. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

Mr Knight’s lip curled as he put up two fingers. Mrs Toms rose to her feet with a horrified look on her face. ‘Doreen, get your coat. We’re leaving right this minute.’

Frankie didn’t like young Mr Knight. He was loud, and brash, and sometimes he frightened her. He didn’t seem to have a proper job so he’d taken to turning up whenever he liked. Frankie had seen him walking around the street with a little red book. When he stood near a wall with one foot up behind him, people would sidle up to him shiftily and give him money. Then he’d write something in the little red book. One time when she’d been watching him, a policeman came around the corner. Young Mr Knight stood up straight and began hurrying away but not before he’d snarled at Frankie, ‘And you can keep your big fat trap shut.’

By now Frankie’s friends had put on their coats or cardigans and her mother, tight-lipped and pink with embarrassment, had said her goodbyes. When everyone was gone young Mr Knight poured himself a cup of tea from the pot. ‘This is cold,’ he complained.

Moira glanced at Frankie. ‘I think it’s bedtime, darling,’ she said softly.

Frankie began a half-hearted protest but in truth she was very tired and she didn’t want to stay up if young Mr Knight was there. She kissed her mother goodnight and took her dolly with her. Later, as she lay in bed with the princess doll on the chair beside her, Frankie could hear raised voices downstairs.

‘You had no right to burst in like that.’

‘I’ll go where I please.’

‘This is my home and you should treat me with respect.’

‘Ah, ah,’ said Mr Knight in a scolding tone. ‘This is my house. My house,’ he continued, his voice becoming more strident. ‘You only pay the rent.’ There was a short silence, then he said in a softer tone, ‘Come on, Moira. I don’t want to quarrel with you. Be nice to me.’

Frankie heard the chair legs scrape on the kitchen floorboards.

‘Don’t you touch me!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘What me and my Ernie had was something special. I’m not interested in anyone else, least of all you.’

Alarmed, Frankie sat up in bed.

‘Come on, woman. What’s the matter with you?’ Mr Knight said. ‘He’s been dead for years. You must be gagging for it by now.’

‘How dare you!’ her mother snapped. ‘And I shan’t tell you again; keep your filthy hands to yourself.’

There was the sound of a scuffle but it was the sound of a slap which brought Frankie to the rail at the top of the landing. Her heart was pounding and dolly trembled in her arms.

‘Get out,’ her mother gasped. ‘Get out before I take the poker to you.’

‘There’s no need to get on your high horse,’ Mr Knight was saying. ‘We could come to some sort of arrangement, you know. How about you say yes and I reduce the rent?’

‘Clear off, I tell you,’ her mother spat. ‘Go on. Take the rent money and get out of here.’

Frankie heard the sound of coins being spilled on the kitchen table.

‘Perhaps I could come back sometime and look for that Russian egg of yours.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother snapped.

‘All right, Moira,’ said Mr Knight. ‘Keep your hair on, but I’m telling you, if you say no next week, you and that kid of yours better start looking for somewhere else to live.’

Frankie heard a squeak as the kitchen door opened. ‘Just one little yes,’ Mr Knight said. ‘That’s all it will take.’

The door banged shut and Frankie heard her mother say, ‘And hell will freeze over first.’

*

The new school term began on September 5th. While she was getting ready, Frankie couldn’t help noticing how pale her mother still looked. Of course, she was also still her usual efficient self. While Frankie washed herself in the scullery, Moira made the beds and tidied the room. While Frankie got dressed, her mother made herself some sandwiches for lunch (Frankie had school dinners) and as Frankie ate her breakfast, she sat beside her at the table with a cup of strong tea. The princess doll sat opposite them.

‘So,’ her mother asked, ‘do you still like your dolly?’

Frankie nodded happily. ‘She’s the bestest dolly in the world.’

‘Best,’ her mother corrected. ‘Not bestest, just best. What are you going to call her?’

Frankie shrugged. ‘Princess something.’

Moira ran her fingers through her daughter’s pretty blond curls. ‘And why not,’ she said. ‘After all, I made that bodice from the bits my Russian princess left behind. That blue suede was from the leftovers of a skirt and the buttons came off a blouse she asked me to alter. Someone had given it to her but it was far too long and she was so tiny.’

Frankie’s jaw dropped. So she had been right. Some of the material had belonged to the Russian princess. When she got down from the table, Frankie touched the doll’s clothes lovingly.

‘Right,’ said Moira, clapping her hands, ‘off to school and don’t dawdle on the way home.’

Taking one last look at the doll sitting on the cosy chair by the range, Frankie and her mother hugged each other at the door and Moira kissed her cheek. Frankie ran up the path but stopped by the gate and ran back. Wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist she said, ‘This was my best birthday ever.’ As she hurried towards the gate, she turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway waving. Frankie waved back and called over her shoulder, ‘And thanks again for my dolly.’

Moira had plenty to be getting on with. She had taken the day off on Saturday to celebrate Frankie’s birthday, and been glad to do it, but now she had some serious catching up to do. Moira hadn’t said anything to her daughter but over the past few days she hadn’t been feeling too well. Nothing she could put her finger on, but she kept coming over all weak and she just couldn’t seem to shake this wretched indigestion.

The doctor’s wife was coming this afternoon for the last fitting of her cocktail dress. She was a good customer – happy to spend a small fortune on both material and Moira’s skill in order to maintain her reputation for being the best dressed woman in Worthing – but before that, Moira made a start on some alterations on new garments which had been bought by customers in Bentall’s. She had been thrilled to land the job as their resident seamstress. The alterations were simple enough: a couple of inches off a hem, a sleeve which needed shortening and a waist band on a skirt which had to be let out a little. These had become her bread and butter jobs. Today she had three things to alter – a nightdress which was too long, a curtain to shorten, and some buttons to move on a coat because the wearer had put on weight. She worked quickly but every now and then her left arm ached and she had to stop to give it a rub.

She worked steadily until lunchtime, when she stopped to stretch her legs with a walk around the garden and to eat her sandwiches. She lifted her arms about her head a few times to ease the dull ache in her chest after sitting hunched over her work for so long. After she’d had a cup of tea, she put the doctor’s wife’s dress on the tailor’s dummy and settled down again with her sewing but she was soon interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. She glanced up at the clock. Was that her customer? No, it was too early for her. She said she’d come by after she’d finished a game of golf.

When Moira opened the door, she let out a gasp of surprise. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ Her visitor hovered on the step until she said, ‘I never expected you to come so soon.’ And stepping aside, she let her visitor in.

*

It was hard to concentrate on her lessons. More than once, Frankie’s mind drifted back to Hillbarn and the picnic she’d enjoyed on her birthday. In her imagination she could feel the sun on her back while the bees were humming around the blackberries. They’d eaten the ones they’d picked on Saturday for lunch on Sunday and they’d gone back for some more in the evening. Those blackberries were in a large bowl on the draining board and her mother had said she would make a blackberry and apple pie for their tea. Frankie was looking forward to it.

In the morning, Frankie and her class had to practise their best writing. Miss Smith had written ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ at the top of the page in her writing book and she had to copy the beautiful copperplate hand. It was quite hard work even if she did have three horizontal lines on the page to aid her. As she concentrated with her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth, Frankie was thinking of her dolly. What should she call her? What did mummy say the princess was called? She’d heard the name umpteen times but she still couldn’t quite get her tongue around it. ‘Alexy Vena’ or something like that. She’d have to ask mummy to say it again when she got home.

They had PE after break and Frankie did ten star jumps. She sat with Jenny at the dinner table but Doreen was monitor so she sat at the other end of the form. It was mutton stew. Frankie didn’t much care for mutton stew. You often had big lumps of slimy mutton fat and of course you had to eat everything on your plate or you got into trouble. Getting it down was slow going and not very enjoyable but they had semolina and strawberry jam for pudding. She didn’t mind that, especially the jam.

In the playground, Doreen seemed a bit stand-offish. Frankie didn’t understand why but then someone told her it was because Doreen’s mum didn’t like Mrs Sherwood’s fancy man. Frankie didn’t understand what that meant but she could tell that Doreen and her mum weren’t being very nice and it upset her that her friend had stopped talking to her.

They did sums in the afternoon and then Mr Bawden read a book to the class. He began with The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, an exciting story about a boy and his adventures in America. Frankie held her breath as Mr Bawden read the bit where Tom and his friend, Huckleberry Finn, see Injun Joe murder Dr Robinson in the graveyard. Then, terrified that Injun Joe might do them harm, Tom and Huck swear a blood oath not to tell. The class had heard it all before but it didn’t dampen their enthusiasm for a ‘ripping yarn’, as Mr Bawden called it.

Remembering her promise, Frankie didn’t dawdle on the way home, but as she turned into her road there was a St John Ambulance outside her gate. She broke into a run just as Mrs Dickenson, their next-door neighbour, came out of Frankie’s house. Frankie tried to dodge past her but Mrs Dickenson stopped her from going indoors.

‘It’s no good going in there, dear,’ she said. ‘You come along with me.’

‘Why?’ Frankie gasped. ‘What’s happened? Where’s my mummy?’

Two men in blue uniforms came out of the front door. One of them glanced at Mrs Dickenson. ‘Is this her?’

Mrs Dickenson nodded.

‘You get the stretcher, Charlie,’ he went on. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ He came towards Frankie and bent down. ‘Now then, little girl,’ he said with a fixed smile which was a little scary, ‘you mustn’t cry. Your mummy wouldn’t like that, see? You have to be brave. So do what the nice lady says and go over to her house.’

‘But I live here!’ Frankie cried. ‘This is where I live with my mummy.’

‘That’s as may be,’ the man said a little more firmly, ‘but you have to stay away until the police come.’

Frankie stared at him in horror. Police? What on earth was he talking about? Pushing against the man’s leg, she struggled to get past him. ‘Mummy, Mummy!’

‘No good shouting like that,’ said the man curtly. ‘She can’t hear you no more.’

Frankie looked up at him helplessly.

‘Your mother is dead,’ he said quietly.

Two
North Farm, Sussex, 1933

The hours since she’d left school and come home became a blur. Frankie had watched the ambulance take her mother away but she couldn’t actually see her. Moira was covered right over with a red blanket. As soon as she had gone, Mrs Dickenson made Frankie come away from the window. Neighbours came and went, all speaking in hushed tones. They’d say something to Mrs Dickenson then turn their heads to look at Frankie. Invariably they would give her a wide smile and say something like ‘You’ll be all right, dear,’ or ‘Keep your pecker up.’

Frankie said nothing, not even when she heard them whispering. ‘Does she know? Does she understand?’ Frankie frowned to herself. Of course she knew. She understood perfectly. Mummy was dead, or gone to be with Jesus, or in heaven with the angels, depending on who was talking to her. She understood but it was hard to take in. Just this morning, when she and her mother had waved goodbye, she’d never said she was going to see Jesus.

Nobody actually told her why her mother had died but she heard their whispers.

‘They say it was her heart.’

‘Mrs Ruddock said she kept rubbing her arm all the time when they were up on Hillbarn for the kiddie’s birthday on Saturday.’

‘I heard she complained of indigestion.’

Then they would all shake their heads and smile at Frankie again. ‘Poor little mite.’

Shortly after, a policeman arrived. ‘Who found Mrs Sherwood?’ he said getting out his notebook and licking the end of his pencil.

‘Me,’ said Mrs Dickenson. ‘I could hear somebody banging about,’ she went on, closing the kitchen door slightly but not enough to stop Frankie hearing what she was saying. ‘Scared me out of me wits. Then somebody slammed the back door and I went round. Poor Mrs Sherwood was sitting in the chair with a tea towel over her head and someone had gone through her things.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ve no idea but whoever it was must have been looking for something,’ Mrs Dickenson went on. ‘I heard her having a row with somebody earlier on.’

The door whined open and the policeman looked at Frankie, giving her a kindly smile.

*

Eventually a woman from the Welfare turned up and began trying to find Frankie a place to stay. Apparently Mrs Dickenson couldn’t take her in. ‘I’ve got three strapping lads and my old mum in the place already,’ she said stoutly. Miss Paine, Frankie’s next-door neighbour on the other side, didn’t want her either. ‘I’m an unmarried woman,’ she’d protested. ‘I can’t have a child living in my house. What would the neighbours think?’ The fact that the neighbours already knew who Frankie was and what had happened seemed to be lost on her. And all the while, Frankie sat quietly in Mrs Dickenson’s little sitting room, swallowing the huge lump in her throat and trying not to burst into tears.

In the end, they sent a message to Frankie’s Aunt Bet, her mother’s sister, who lived only a couple of miles away, and a little later her case was packed. The woman from the Welfare walked her up to North Farm and her uncle opened the door and invited them in. When Aunt Bet came in, the two women exchanged a few words at the door and Aunt Bet ushered Frankie upstairs.

The room itself had been hastily prepared and although she’d been to Aunt Bet’s farm loads of times, this was the first time she’d ever been upstairs.

‘Come on, lovey,’ her aunt said. ‘I’ve made up the bed for you and you can put your dolly on the chair right beside you.’

She was a plain woman with a round face and mousey-coloured hair, cut short and permed. She was a little on the plump side (her wrap-over apron was straining over her middle) and she had strong-looking arms.

Gently taking Frankie’s coat from her shoulders, she lifted the child’s small suitcase onto the bed. Frankie could see by her face that Aunt Bet had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed. When the Welfare woman knocked at the farm door, even Uncle Lawrence, or, Lorry, as everyone called him, had red eyes. Frankie still hadn’t shed a tear but her chest felt as if she had a brick inside it and her head pounded. You mustn’t cry, the man had said. Your mum wouldn’t like it.

Frankie put her princess doll on the chair just as Aunt Bet suggested, but she didn’t look the same as before and she couldn’t sit up properly. Aunt Bet lifted her skirts and let out a strangled cry. ‘Oh dear, dear, how on earth did that happen?’ The doll had a large gash across her middle. A large amount of stuffing had been removed and not all of it had been put back. Fortunately the clothes were intact. As she tried to re-arrange her, Frankie let a little gulp of anguish slip from between her lips. Her hands were trembling. ‘Somebody cut my dolly,’ she said, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

‘There, there, lovey,’ said Aunt Bet, coming over to give her a hug. ‘While you’re in bed I’ll have a go at mending her. She’ll be as right as ninepence in the morning.’

‘My mummy made her for my birthday,’ Frankie said.

Aunt Bet squeezed her shoulder. ‘I know she did, lovey. She showed her to me last week.’

They shared a wobbly smile. ‘She was a very clever lady, your mum,’ said Aunt Bet, dabbing her eyes again.

They unpacked Frankie’s case and put her things in the drawers. Until now, the bedroom had belonged to Frankie’s cousin, Alan. He was motorbike mad so the walls were covered in pictures of motorbikes and their riders. A pair of grubby boots hung by their laces from the mirror on the dressing table. As Aunt Bet took them down she said, ‘We’ll soon get rid of all this stuff and then you can make the room your own.’

‘Am I going to stay here forever?’

Aunt Bet turned her back, quite forgetting that Frankie could see her anguished reflection in the mirror. ‘Yes, dear.’

Her face was a picture of misery. It was obvious that she was struggling not to cry again. Frankie’s heart flipped. Judging by her aunt’s expression, Aunt Bet didn’t really want her here. ‘I’m sorry,’ Frankie blurted out. ‘They told me I had to come.’

Her aunt turned around suddenly. ‘Oh, lovey,’ she blurted out as she pulled Frankie into her arms. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Of course I want you here. We all want you. Uncle Lorry, Alan and Ronald, we’re so glad you’ve come. It’s just that I feel so sad about your mum, that’s all.’

Later, as Frankie lay between the crisp white sheets, she stared at the empty chair beside the bed and wondered what her life would be like now. Aunt Bet said she didn’t have to go to school the next day but, in truth, Frankie would have liked to go. She’d miss her friend Jenny. She hoped Doreen might talk to her again. She turned over in bed but she couldn’t sleep. If only mummy was here to kiss her goodnight.

Downstairs everyone had gathered around the kitchen table. They had eaten their supper, although Frankie had only picked at hers, and now they were relaxing over a cup of tea. Lorry had laced Bet’s tea with a little brandy. He was a man of few words but he was thoughtful and kind. There was a box of papers belonging to his sister-in-law in the middle of the table. Ever since they’d had the news, they’d been living an absolute nightmare. When the police turned up on the doorstep, they’d said Moira was dead and Frankie couldn’t be left on her own. They’d asked the neighbours to take her in but nobody could. Thank God somebody remembered Bet and Lorry. Of course there was no hesitation. It was only right that Frankie should come and live with them and Bet had settled the girl in Alan’s room. At sixteen, he wasn’t too happy about bunking in with his younger brother, Ronald, but it couldn’t be helped and he’d accepted the situation with good grace. As for Ronald, he was the sort to get on with whatever happened in life. As soon as he got home from school he’d moved his things to one side of the small bedroom to make room for his older brother and now it looked as if it had always been that way.

The policeman had explained that someone had obviously been in the property looking for something, and there was every possibility that whoever it was might come back. Lorry was advised that as next of kin, he and Bet should get over there and retrieve anything of value. Of course, Bet couldn’t go – she had to stay with Frankie – so he and Alan had gone over to grab a few things, planning to collect the rest of Moira’s stuff later on. They found that some of the drawers had been disturbed and the cupboards had been left open. The only real damage was to Frankie’s new doll. Whoever had been in the property had ripped it open with a knife. It was the only thing the little girl had asked for when she was told she had to come to North Farm.

Having cleared the supper table, Bet reached for her sewing box.

‘Do you know how Auntie Moira died, Mum?’ asked Ronald.

‘The Welfare lady said it was a heart attack,’ said his mother.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Lorry. He was a small man, stockily built. He still wore his moustache in the style of Lord Kitchener; something which he’d grown as a young man, although it was now flecked with grey and tobacco stained. ‘She seemed well enough, didn’t she?’

‘Obviously not,’ Bet said tartly.

‘If someone was with her when it happened,’ said Alan, ‘why didn’t they get help?’

‘Nobody said she was still alive when whoever it was was in there,’ said his father, ‘did they?’

His mother looked alarmed. ‘I hope not. Moira was the salt of the earth.’

Alan shook his head. ‘What could they have been looking for?’ He was a tall lad, much taller than his father. Legs right up to his armpits, as his mother would say, and good-looking to boot. A keen motorbike rider, he had been working with his father since he’d left school at fourteen.

His mother blew her nose and stuffed her already damp handkerchief back up her sleeve. ‘No idea. It’s not as if Moira had any money. She may have worked all the hours God gave but she lived hand to mouth.’ She pushed the stuffing back inside the doll angrily and began adding some torn up pieces of rag before sewing the two halves together.

‘People were always saying daft things about your sister,’ Lorry observed. ‘All that stuff about the Russians.’

‘That was just a stupid yarn she made up to amuse Frankie,’ said Bet. ‘You know Moira. She was great one for story-telling.’

‘People said she had a secret stash of jewellery,’ said Alan.

‘A Fabergé egg, I heard,’ said Ronald. He leaned over and pulled up his school socks with an exaggerated sigh. He was a disappointed boy. He had asked his mother – no, begged her – to be allowed to wear long trousers now that he was thirteen, but still she said no.

Bet frowned disapprovingly. ‘Utterly ridiculous!’ she retorted. ‘Do you really think Auntie Moira would be living in two rooms in Broadwater if she had something as expensive as a Fabergé egg?’

‘Load of tommyrot, if you ask me,’ his father interjected.

Ronald put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right, I’m only saying.’

His mother was immediately repentant. ‘Sorry, son. I’m on edge, that’s all.’

‘So is Frankie going to live here for good?’ asked Ronald, rubbing his ear.

‘Of course she is,’ said Bet. ‘Where else could she go? We’re the only family she’s got.’ She glanced up at her son. ‘You got ear ache again?’

Ronald nodded. Ever since he was a child he’d suffered from ear ache and whenever he got a cold he would go deaf. The doctor said he’d got narrow Eustachian tubes which were easily blocked.

‘Well, you’d better put those drops in your ear before it gets any worse,’ she said.

Sidney Knight had got the fright of his life when he’d found Moira. Ignoring her protest of Saturday that he should knock first and wait to be invited in, he had let himself into her rooms with his key. She’d be annoyed with him, of course, but he didn’t care. He liked her best when she was roused.

She was sitting in the chair with her back to the door. He said her name but she didn’t move. She must have nodded off, he told himself as he crept up to her. He came round the chair slowly. Her legs were slightly apart and one of her shoes wasn’t on her foot properly. Her skirt had ridden up slightly on one side, and looking at her shapely leg, he licked his lips in anticipation of what might be to come. He lifted the hem gently, so as not to disturb her sleeping, and put his hand onto the top of her thigh, in between her stocking top and her panties.

‘Moira,’ he said hoarsely, as he looked into her face.

Her eyes were not quite closed and her skin was pale. There was a blue hue around her mouth and she was completely still. He jumped away from her like a scalded cat. Was she dead? She couldn’t be. Her leg had still been warm when he’d touched it. He looked again. She wasn’t breathing. He stared at her chest. Was she breathing? He looked around for a mirror. There was a toy mirror next to a peasant doll on the chair. He put it under her nose and waited. The glass remained unchanged. Oh God, she was dead. He took several steps backwards and stared at her again. He’d never seen a dead body before. When his father died they’d wanted him to look at the body in the funeral parlour but he’d refused. He hadn’t seen the old man in a month or more and he wanted to keep it that way. His last memory was of the row they’d had. ‘Stay away from that race track, Sidney,’ his father had bellowed. ‘Gambling is a mug’s game.’

He suddenly shuddered. Even though he knew Moira was dead, she looked as if she were asleep. He turned away. Oh Moira, we could have had some good times together, he thought. I’ve never wanted a woman like I wanted you. What did you have to go and die for!

He supposed he should tell someone. The kid would be home from school soon. He should say something before then. His eye gravitated towards the dresser where Moira’s purse rested in a blue plate. A moment later, he was stuffing coins into his back pocket. There wasn’t much in the purse. Maybe she had money somewhere else. He had found the rent book in a drawer and pocketed the half crown between the pages. That led to a search of the other drawers. He’d have to be quick. He didn’t want to be caught rifling through her things.

She was still looking at him through half-closed eyes. It unnerved him so he put a tea towel over her face and carried on searching. The Post Office Savings Book was in a tin right at the top of the dresser. There were two postal orders folded inside. One was for twenty pounds and the other for twenty-eight pounds. There was a further fifteen pounds deposited in the account. He gasped. So the gossips were right. The woman did have money. She glanced back at the body. ‘What were you up to, you dirty cow?’ he spat. ‘You wouldn’t let me touch you, would you, but you were obviously getting it from somewhere.’

It was then that he’d noticed a man’s hat had fallen between the chair and the small table beside it. His blood boiled. So she did have some fancy man. Now that he was annoyed, his search became more frantic, more untidy and at the end of it, he was even more frustrated and angry. There was no more money and he couldn’t see anything of any real value. In a temper, he threw a kitchen chair onto the floor and pushed the mannequin wearing a dress over.

When he heard the sound of the next-door neighbour moving around, it brought him to his senses. As a landlord no one would have the right to challenge his being there; but he would be in trouble if they realised he was the one who had turned the place over. He was just about to leave when he saw a shadow on the glass of the door.

*

Back home he was a disappointed man. It upset him to think of what had happened but it wasn’t his fault. He’d only turned up because he wanted to get her alone. He’d been so sure she’d have been more willing if the kid wasn’t around. He hadn’t expected her to have a fancy man. True, he’d had a good snoop around to look for anything of value but he’d been cut short by the arrival of the other bloke and one thing led to another. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He was upset. It was an accident. His stomach was churning. That’s why, to cheer himself up, he’d put the cash on a horse in the three-thirty at Goodwood on the way home. But it really wasn’t his day. He’d lost the lot but fortunately, the money in the Post Office Savings Book and the two postal orders were still in his possession. They were both made out to M Sherwood. How the hell could he get his hands on it? There was one thing he could do – he could try and get the rent off her relatives when they came to get her stuff. He could show them the empty rent book. They weren’t to know he’d already had it. He smiled to himself. He was, if nothing else, bloody clever.

*

When she went round to Moira’s place the next day, Bet looked around with a sinking feeling in her stomach. The reports were right. Someone had been in here going through her sister’s things. It made her feel uncomfortable, edgy. Moira’s usually neat and tidy rooms were far from the way she would have left them.

Lorry was shaking his head. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace, isn’t it?’

They’d come with a couple of suitcases and a few shopping bags. The police had suggested that they collect what they could as soon as possible. ‘You don’t want every old Tom, Dick and Harry going in there and helping themselves,’ the constable had said.

They planned to take everything back to the farm and sort it out from there. Anything which could be sold would be sold.

‘We’ll get a Post Office Savings Book and put the money in there for Frankie,’ said Bet.

‘Moira would have liked that,’ Lorry said gruffly as he tried to hide his emotions.

‘I don’t want her to know yet,’ said Bet. ‘She can have it later on.’

‘What, when she leaves school?’

Bet shook her head. ‘I think we should wait until she leaves our place, whether she gets married first or gets a job living away. It will help set her up.’

Lorry nodded grimly.

They packed up what they could. Household items which would be useful for Bet went into one case. The contents of the food cabinet – including the left-over birthday cake – went into a large shopping bag. Bet shed a tear when she saw it. Moira’s clothes and her few personal possessions were packed into the suitcase and Frankie’s things went into the other case. The only thing she couldn’t find was the little brass box, the one which Moira kept on the mantelpiece. Bet had never actually seen inside but apparently some grateful customer had given her the box before she was married, and Moira kept it beside the clock. She mentioned it to Lorry.

‘Why take that?’ he asked. ‘There was nothing of value inside, was there?’

Bet shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ It was real puzzle.

With regards to the furniture, Bet had given first refusal to the neighbours so by the time Lorry put everything that was left onto the tractor trailer, the rooms were almost bare. After that, he went back to the farm with the promise to come and fetch her at tea time, while Bet spent the next hour cleaning the rooms, readying them for the next tenant. Everything was fine until she opened the oven door and found a beautiful looking pastry tart waiting to be cooked. Putting it onto the draining board, Bet clamped her hands over her mouth for a few moments as her grief overwhelmed her.

Mr Knight, the landlord, turned up just before Lorry came back and told Bet her sister owed him two weeks’ rent. As they hadn’t been able to find any money put by, Lorry coughed up the ten bob as soon as he walked in the door. Before she locked the doors for the last time, Bet stood for a while by the window, looking out onto the garden where only the pegs danced on the washing line. Outside in the road, Lorry tooted the horn and for a fleeting moment, Bet thought she heard the sound of laughter – Moira’s laughter. She didn’t turn around. Bet knew the room was empty. Her sister – her fun-loving, clever, story-telling kid sister – was gone. Gone forever.

‘I promise you, darlin’,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, ‘we will do the best we can by your girl.’ Bet turned to face the empty room and took in a deep breath. ‘Bye, Moira, my dear. Rest in peace.’

Three

When Frankie had opened her eyes that first morning in North Farm, the doll was back in the chair. Closer examination revealed that she had been stitched together and she had a large bandage around her middle. When she came into her room, Aunt Bet smiled. ‘The “doctor” left a little jar of dolly mixtures which I put on the chair. His instruction is that you should eat two sweets three times a day until they are all gone,’ she said.

Once she was up and dressed, Frankie sat in the chair with the dolly in her lap. The princess doll didn’t feel quite as robust as she had done when her mother gave it to her, but it was comforting to hold her. Somehow it brought mummy closer. There were still no tears but Frankie had that empty feeling inside her tummy and the pain in her chest felt like a lead weight. It was a strange feeling and she hated it. She wanted mummy back. She wanted her to wave goodbye to the angels and Jesus and come home, but she knew in her heart of hearts it was never going to happen.

Aunt Bet filled the larder with mummy’s food and the leftover cake. The pie went into the oven for their tea and all the while she fussed over Frankie, giving her special treats. She let Frankie feed the chickens and Uncle Lorry and Alan gave her little jobs around the yard. Ronald had gone to school. He was supposed to leave at Christmas; although he would have liked the opportunity to further his education, he had to go to work.

Despite being called North Farm, the place Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry called home was really a smallholding. They kept chickens, duck and a few geese. There were a couple of glasshouses where they grew mainly tomatoes and cucumbers. The whole of this part of Sussex was still a grower’s paradise. Before the Great War it had been the main source of occupation, but the staggering losses on the battlefields of Europe meant that the workforce had been seriously depleted. Many nurseries lay derelict but quite a few plodded on and why not? Worthing was famed for its tomatoes, cucumbers and grapes. Next door, on Lyon’s Farm, they grew tomatoes and chrysanthemums. At the height of both seasons, lorry loads of produce left for the station twice a day to take it to the market in Covent Garden, London. North Farm had a much smaller yield and mostly supplied local traders.

Both Frankie’s cousins were keen bikers. They had their own machines and they spent hours breaking them down and rebuilding them. At weekends they held races on a muddy track on a piece of ground which was no longer fit for growing. Ronald asked her if she would like to come and watch but Frankie preferred to stay inside and watch from the safety of the kitchen window.

There was an inquest, of course. Aunt Bet went and came back telling the family, though not Frankie, that Moira had indeed died of natural causes. ‘It was a heart attack,’ Bet told her family at the table. ‘She’d been unwell since the weekend. The two mums who went to Frankie’s birthday picnic said she’d complained of chest pains.’

‘So why didn’t she do something about it?’ Lorry asked.

‘I suppose she thought it would pass.’

Lorry and the boys fell silent.

‘Did they say anything about the state of her place?’ Lorry wanted to know.

‘The police say it’s an ongoing investigation,’ said Bet. ‘They seem convinced she was already gone when whoever it was went through her things.’

‘How can they be sure that whoever it was hadn’t left the poor woman to die while he rifled through her stuff?’ Lorry retorted.

‘I keep wondering that too,’ said Bet, pinching the end of her nose with her handkerchief. ‘The coroner asked me if anything was missing but as far as I know, it was only that little brass box she kept on the mantelpiece.’

Lorry shook his head in disbelief. ‘So nobody saw who came to the house?’

‘Mrs Dickenson talked about a foreign-looking man knocking on the door,’ Bet went on.

‘That’d be the landlord,’ said Alan.

‘Surely Mrs Dickenson would know the difference between a foreigner and Mr Knight?’ his father said. ‘Anyway, she owed him two weeks rent.’

‘As it happens,’ Bet interrupted, ‘I don’t think she did. Mrs Dickenson said she paid regular as clockwork on a Saturday. Always did.’

Lorry pursed his lips. ‘So what you’re telling me is that cheating bastard, excuse my French, had me over?’

His wife nodded.

‘So who was the foreign-looking man?’ Ronald asked.

Bet shrugged. ‘Miss Paine saw him too. She said he was wearing a funny shirt with buttons on the side but no collar. Apparently he knocked on the door twice.’

‘Twice?’ Lorry echoed.

‘Mrs Dickenson saw him at lunch time and then a bit later on. About half past two.’

Everyone seemed puzzled.

‘I don’t think we should tell Frankie any of this.’

‘I agree,’ said Lorry, ‘but I wish I could get my hands on the lousy bugger.’ He leaned over the table and squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘Have they released the body?’

Bet nodded.

‘Good,’ said Lorry. ‘It’s time we put that poor lass in the ground.’

Bet glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Do you think we should take Frankie to the funeral?’

Lorry frowned, unsure. ‘People don’t usually take nippers to funerals, do they?’

‘She’s a bit young, Mum,’ said Alan. He was going out with his mates so he was busy combing Brylcreem through his hair as he stood in front of the mirror by the sink.

‘In that case,’ said Bet, considering the matter settled, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Mac to invite her to her cottage for a couple of hours that day.’

Her husband nodded.

‘You know, I’m worried about Frankie,’ Bet went on. ‘Have any of you ever seen her cry?’

Her husband and both sons seemed slightly bemused by her remark but they shook their heads.

‘Neither have I,’ said Bet. ‘Considering how close she and her mother were it’s not right. She shouldn’t be keeping it all in like that.’

‘Have a word with Doctor Rutherford,’ said Lorry. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

*

It was arranged that Frankie would go to school in Sompting starting from next week. Everyone agreed that it was within walking distance and it would give her a completely fresh start. As soon as Frankie had gone outside with Lorry, Bet took the opportunity to sort through the cases she’d brought back from Moira’s place. She had a small blue case of her own on the top of her wardrobe. It was one she had bought in Woolworth’s years before when Lorry’s mother had to go into hospital. When she died, it seemed too good to throw out so, even though it was small, she’d kept it. She got it down and put the few personal things belonging to Moira inside. They wouldn’t mean a lot to a little girl right now but when she was older, Frankie would appreciate having them. Moira’s jewellery for instance. There was nothing of value and she only had a couple of brooches and a necklace or two but because they had belonged to her mother, Bet was sure that in due time Frankie would treasure them. She also put in her mother’s diary. It was only a record of her clients but might bring back a few memories. The children’s books she’d put beside Frankie’s bed but she decided that a dark blue and gilt book called The Russian Princess looked too good for a child to play with. Bet leafed through it and would have read a few lines, but she was interrupted by the grocery boy calling up the stairs.

‘Hey-up, missus. Copeland’s delivery.’

‘Coming,’ she called. Throwing the book into the case, she heaved it onto the wardrobe and hurried down to the kitchen.

Four

Doctor Rutherford was unambiguous in his opinion. ‘If, as you say, the child was devoted to her mother, it’s imperative that you encourage her to grieve.’

‘But what can I do?’ Bet said helplessly. ‘She simply won’t cry. She just holds everything in.’

‘Talk to her,’ the doctor said curtly. ‘Tell her what a wonderful person her mother was. Reopen her memories.’

Bet nodded miserably. Did he really think she hadn’t already tried that?

‘Is she wetting the bed?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Bet said quickly.

‘Will you take her to her mother’s funeral?’

Bet shook her head. ‘We thought it best not to.’

There was a short pause then Doctor Rutherford said in a kindlier tone, ‘I understand that it will be very painful for you to talk about your sister all the time, but I can’t stress enough the importance of helping your niece to release her emotions. Is she back at school?’

‘I thought it best to keep her at home for a bit.’

‘Send her back tomorrow,’ said the doctor, picking up his pen and scribbling something onto the brown card in front of him. ‘Talk to her teacher.’

Bet felt dismissed. ‘Yes, doctor,’ she said, picking up her handbag from beside the chair. ‘Thank you.’ She rose to her feet.

He carried on scribbling. ‘Send the next patient in as you go. Good morning, Mrs Cavendish.’

Back home, Lorry was more sympathetic. ‘He’s right, I suppose.’ They were in the kitchen at lunch time. He and their son Alan had come in for a bite to eat. Ronald was at school and Frankie was outside, sitting on the old tree stump, with the chickens scratching all around.

‘She hardly ate a thing,’ said Bet, scraping Frankie’s half-eaten sandwich into the pig bin. ‘If she carries on like this she’ll be losing weight.’

‘You’re doing your best, Mum,’ said Alan. ‘She’ll come round.’

‘But she’s got no interest in anything,’ Bet said desperately. ‘It’s like she’s gone inside herself and shut the door.’

Lorry put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘We’ll get there,’ he said optimistically.

When Lorry and Alan went back to work, Aunt Bet called Frankie indoors. ‘Today is my baking day,’ she began cheerfully, ‘and I could do with some help.’ She went on to say that she planned to make a couple of pies. ‘My boys have big appetites.’

She planned to make a pie for tonight’s tea time and one for the next day. She decided against mentioning that Moira’s funeral was tomorrow. On the day they buried her mother, Frankie would be at school until four and Mrs Mac had promised to meet her so she wouldn’t have to walk back on her own. When Bet dropped Frankie off in the morning it would give her a chance to speak to her teacher, Miss Smith, and put her in the picture.

While Aunt Bet made the pastry and lined the pie dish, Frankie was given the job of peeling and cutting up the carrots, onions and potatoes. As soon as they were busy, Bet began to talk about Moira. ‘We’ve got some lovely memories of your mum, haven’t we?’

No reaction.

‘Do you remember that Christmas when your Uncle Lorry came home a bit tipsy and dropped the goose on the kitchen floor? I was so cross with him but your mum laughed so much I saw the funny side of it too and it wasn’t long before we were all laughing.’

Frankie’s expression hadn’t changed.

‘What do you remember about your mum?’ Bet asked.

Frankie only shrugged.

Oh dear, this was like wading through treacle.

‘Mrs Ruddock told me she played hide and seek with you when you went up to Hillbarn for your birthday.’

Stony-faced, Frankie pushed some chopped up carrots into the saucepan.

‘She said you all picked blackberries.’

The girl was ignoring her and carried on as if she was quite alone in the room. Bet looked away. This wasn’t working. She pushed the diced lamb into the frying pan to seal in the juices before putting it into the pie dish. The meat sizzled as it hit the fat. Frankie put some chopped onion onto the work surface beside her aunt.

‘Thank you, dear.’

A delicious smell filled the kitchen.

‘Everybody loved your mum,’ said Bet, her voice growing thicker. She paused for a second or two before adding harshly, ‘but that’s because they didn’t know her like I did.’

Behind her Bet heard Frankie falter in her rhythmic chopping.

Bet took a deep breath. ‘See, I remember the stuff she did as a child. She was jealous of me. Did you know that?’ She could see Frankie’s reflection in the shaving mirror Lorry had hung next to the window to get the best light. The child had stopped working and stood stiffly to attention, her face a mask of horror. Hating herself for doing this, Bet carried on, ‘Did you know she tore my school dress? Deliberately too, but I got the blame for it. Our mother sent me to bed with no tea.’

Without looking at Frankie, Bet tipped the sealed meat and lightly fried onions into the pastry case then turned back again. ‘She just couldn’t bear it because I had pretty hair. She used to pull my plaits all the time.’

Glancing in the mirror again, Bet could see Frankie was staring at her back. ‘I bet she never told you she took the laces out of my best shoes and hid them,’ she said coldly. ‘I had to go to church with my shoes tied up with string. Imagine that. Everybody laughed at me. It was awful and she wasn’t even sorry.’

Frankie’s chin was beginning to wobble. Bet sucked in her lip anxiously. This was tearing her apart and it might not even work but Bet carried on regardless. ‘She was selfish too, your mum. She persuaded people not to talk to me and she told me our father liked her best. She said she was his favourite.’

Frankie jumped to her feet.

‘Had enough?’ said Bet turning around with an innocent smile.

‘It’s not true,’ Frankie shouted angrily. ‘My mummy wasn’t like that.’ Her eyes were bright with tears but they remained unshed.

Bet chewed the side of her mouth. Her every instinct told her to reach out and hug the child, to comfort her in her pain, but she hadn’t actually cried yet. She had the feeling Frankie still had enough strength to gulp down the need to release her grief and carry on as before so she drew herself up to her full height and said, ‘Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it, my girl. Did I ever tell you about …’

The door banged behind her as Frankie ran from the room. Lorry was coming in and stepped aside just in time to miss the little hurricane charging outside. ‘What the …?’

Bet had her eyes closed and was gripping the edge of the sink. ‘Is she crying? Is she crying?’

Her husband nodded. ‘I think so.’

They both looked out of the window. Frankie was standing by the big gate in the yard. They could see her shoulders heaving vigorously so they knew she was sobbing. It looked as if a dam had burst. ‘I must go to her,’ Bet said brokenly.

Lorry gripped her arm. ‘Not for a minute, love,’ he said quietly. ‘Let her have a good cry first.’

His wife wiped her own eyes and blew her nose into her handkerchief. ‘I only did it by saying horrible things about her mum. I feel dreadful now.’

‘What on earth did you say?’ said Lorry.

‘I told her all the awful things I did to Moira when we were children,’ said Bet. ‘We were five years apart, you see, and I was so jealous of her when she was little. She had pretty hair and Father spoiled her something rotten. I told Frankie it was the other way round.’

Lorry gathered her into his arms. ‘You only did what you had to, love,’ he said as she wept on his shoulder.

They heard the door leading to the yard open and Alan came in. ‘You all right, Mum?’

His parents sprang apart and Bet busied herself filling the kettle. Their son sat himself down at the table.

‘Your mother’s upset because we had to make the nipper cry,’ Lorry said gruffly. ‘She was bottling everything in and the doc said it wasn’t good for her.’

Their son moved to the window and looked out. ‘Well, will you look at that!’ he exclaimed.

They both joined him. A chicken stood on the gate post beside Frankie pecking at her hair, not viciously but gently, like a kiss. She was a beautiful bird, with burnt orange coloured glossy feathers and an intelligent look. The smallholding was home to three varieties of chicken, the dark grey and white flecked Sussex, the black Australorp and a few like this one, a Rhode Island Red. Frankie’s shoulders stopped moving and she reached out to stroke its back. The chicken didn’t move away but made a soft warbling sound as she came closer.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Lorry.

Frankie had taken the bird down from the gate post and was sitting on the tree stump with it in her lap.

‘She’s a beautiful bird,’ said Bet, ‘and she must have flown up there herself.’

‘I’ve never seen any of the others on that post,’ Alan agreed. ‘It’s quite high up. She couldn’t have jumped up there … could she?’

‘I must have missed that one when I clipped all of their flight feathers,’ said Lorry. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘No,’ said Bet, grabbing his forearm as she watched the child stroking the bird’s back. ‘Don’t do that.’

Lorry gave her a quizzical look.

‘Apart from her doll, that bird is the only thing I’ve seen Frankie relate to since she came here,’ said Bet.

Bet waited a few more minutes and then went out into the yard. Frankie didn’t look up as she came towards her but Bet saw her back stiffen. It made her feel awful. The chicken gave an indignant squawk as she pushed her aside to sit next to her niece. Frankie lifted her arm as if to wipe her tears and snot with her sleeve but Bet held a clean handkerchief in front of her. She waited until the child had cleaned her face.

‘All those horrible things I said about your mum,’ Bet said gently. ‘They weren’t true.’

Frankie turned to her, swollen-eyed.

‘It was me,’ Bet went on, the shame and guilt from all those years ago finally coming out. ‘I was the one who was jealous. I took the laces out of her shoes, and I was the one who tore your mum’s dress, not the other way around.’

Frankie frowned, clearly puzzled.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ Bet went on miserably, ‘but the doctor said it wasn’t good for you to keep it all in. He said I had to make you cry and this was the only way I could think of.’

‘The man said I mustn’t cry,’ said Frankie.

‘Man? What man?’

Frankie told her about the St John Ambulance man. ‘He said mummy wouldn’t want me to make a fuss.’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Bet, her voice breaking. ‘I don’t think he meant it quite like that.’

Her aunt put her arm around Frankie’s shoulders and the little girl rested her head on her chest. ‘Of course you can cry. It’s perfectly natural to cry because your poor mummy died.’

They stayed like that for some time, each lost in her own thoughts and mourning the enormity of their loss until Frankie said, ‘Did you know my mummy once knew a real Russian princess?’

Bet had heard the story many times but as she smiled down at her niece she said, ‘Did she really? When was that then?’

Frankie blew her nose. ‘Well, it was a very long time ago, before I was even born …’

Five
North Farm, Sussex, 1937

‘But you promised!’

Frankie Sherwood stood with her hands on her hips, her legs akimbo and a thunderous look on her face. Her cousin Alan was doing his best to ignore her as he struggled to replace the light bulb in the front of his motorbike.

Not quite fifteen, Frankie had lived with her cousins for almost five years. It had taken a while to get used to the change in lifestyle but now she embraced it fully. From the moment Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry saw the affinity she had with the only flying chicken in the coop, Frankie had been put in charge of the hens. She made it her business to know all about them and their egg production, making it into a serious business. Frankie’s hens were very productive. Some of her best layers gave her as many as two hundred and fifty eggs a year. If for some reason a hen’s egg laying dropped, she would give her special attention for a while but if all else failed, that chicken would be a candidate for the next Sunday roast. However, Frankie’s pet chicken, which she’d called Loopy-Lu, was still around. Now five years old, she was hale and hearty and a good layer. She was a good looker too. Her feathers were a lovely russet red and she had a keen eye. Frankie’s chicken had always been the independent sort, refusing to go into the hen house at night with the others. Loopy-Lu preferred to roost on one of the upper branches of the tree and Uncle Lorry reckoned she could live for anything up to eight years providing she kept out of the way of foxes.

As time went by, Frankie grew closer to her cousins and they became more like brothers and sister. Normally boys didn’t mix very much with girls but Ronald and Alan included her in the things they did. After a while, Frankie lowered her guard and grew more relaxed. She learned a lot about motorbikes. The lads loved all things mechanical and eventually Frankie was captivated by their passion for riding. At first she watched them as they tinkered with and repaired their machines, but after a few months she wanted to do more. Alan let her check the battery and change the oil, making sure the filters were clean. Soon she was cleaning carburettors, taking off the rear wheel, and removing the drum cover to check the brakes by herself. Before long, she could strip a machine down, clean it and put it back together again – no trouble at all. Uncle Lorry said she was a natural.

A little after her thirteenth birthday, she’d managed to persuade the boys to let her have a go on one of Uncle Lorry’s old bikes. They’d waited until Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry had gone out because they were all pretty sure Aunt Bet would never allow it. The bike was a bit clapped out but they’d got it going and she’d sat on the saddle with the engine firing under her for the first time. It was magic.

‘Take her right round the path and up the hill,’ said Alan. ‘Remember to open the throttle when you go up and keep your speed up.’

Frankie had been so excited. Ronald and Alan stood either side of the bike to hold her steady. After a couple of false starts when she stalled the engine, she was off. It was great on the flat but then she had to tackle the incline. Nervous, she took the rise too slowly. The minute she made contact with rough ground, she knew she didn’t have enough speed to go on. She’d tried to rectify the situation but she already knew it was far too late. She was going to fall. When it happened, it was in slow motion, like a moment in a Marx Brothers movie or something from a Will Hay film. The bike leaned heavily to the right and Frankie felt her bottom slide from the saddle as it tilted over, ever so slowly. Holding the handlebars tight, she’d managed to get her right foot down and push herself away from the heavy machine, but she couldn’t get a firm foothold. Staggering in an ungainly way, her legs being forced apart by the mud, she’d let out a loud squeal. The next moment, she’d hit the ground. Fortunately, it wasn’t on the hard packed soil but on a patch of squidgy mud, which softened the blow. The bike was on its side and she’d been relieved that she wasn’t trapped underneath or hurt.

She’d tried to stand but her feet squelched in the mud and she went down again. Frankie tried a second time but the same thing happened. As she went down a third time she saw Alan running up the hill towards her. Ronald was still by the barn, laughing his head off.

‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ Alan cried.

He held his arm out but as Frankie grabbed his hand, his feet slithered apart and he fell beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered.

By then Ronald was beside himself. Alan frowned, but seeing the state they were both in, he began to laugh. After a moment or two, Frankie began to laugh as well and before long, they were all helpless. Eventually Alan managed to crawl on his hands and knees towards a small grass verge and finally found his feet. Frankie did the same.

‘That was the funniest thing I ever saw,’ Ronald said.

Now, almost a year later, Frankie had proved herself to be an accomplished rider, even managing to impress her aunt and uncle. But she was confined to the farm. Frankie’s one desire was to race but it was well-nigh impossible to find a meeting where girls were allowed to take part. The meeting this Saturday was no exception. Alan had just told her she couldn’t go.

‘You let me do all that work on the bike,’ Frankie said crossly, ‘and now you refuse to let me ride. It’s not fair!’

Alan shrugged. ‘It’s not me. It’s the system. Rules is rules.’

‘I don’t see why we have to stick to the rules when they are so stupid,’ Frankie fumed. ‘I bet you’re only saying that because you don’t want to be beaten by a girl.’

Her cousin chuckled. ‘Are you serious? A tiddler like you beat the men? Don’t be daft.’

Frankie’s eyes blazed. Alan stood up, his heavily Brylcreemed hair glistening. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I can’t do anything about it, Frankie. Girls aren’t allowed.’

Turning on her heel, Frankie stomped off.

The Sussex Trials brought bike riders from all over the county and had become quite an event. A couple of years ago, Uncle Lorry had cleared a patch of ground by the boundary line with Lyon’s Farm and they’d cordoned it off as a car park. The route Alan and Ronald – and lately, Frankie – had used had been refined and recreated into a proper race track. A couple of chaps who had converted an old caravan into a mobile kitchen had asked him if they could make teas and sandwiches for the punters and Uncle Lorry was happy to let them do it, especially when he could charge them a small fee. With the growing numbers of people turning up for race meetings, the track was proving to be a nice little earner and it took far less graft to keep it going than a day working on the smallholding. Aunt Bet sold eggs at the door and when extra produce was available from the vegetable patch, she bagged up anything spare. She was getting a bit of a reputation with her honey from the beehives and apples from the orchard as well as gooseberries, redcurrants and raspberries when they were in season.

Of course, Frankie had ridden the course many times, but never in a competitive race. Kick-starting was a bit of a problem. At only five foot one inch, her short legs meant that Frankie found it hard to get enough power behind her thrust to get the bike started. Never one to be beaten, she soon discovered that if she put the other foot onto a box or a bit of higher ground, she could put more force into it and bring the lever down quicker.

‘Why the grumpy face?’ said Aunt Bet as she walked in the door with a basket full of eggs.

‘They won’t let me ride on Bank Holiday Monday,’ Frankie said bitterly. ‘It’s so unfair. Just because I’m a girl.’

Her aunt shook her head sympathetically. ‘I know, but they don’t call it a scramble for nothing. Those competitors are very ruthless.’

‘But I’m just as good as the boys,’ said Frankie, ‘and I don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool.’

‘You may be right,’ Aunt Bet said sagely, ‘but until people realise that, nobody’s going to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

Frankie smiled to herself. Now that was food for thought.

Six

Frankie’s friend Barbara was waiting for her when she got off the bus outside the church in Worthing. They’d been friends ever since Frankie changed schools soon after her mother died. She’d lost contact with the girls who came to her birthday picnic on Hillbarn almost five years ago. She missed Jenny Ruddock a bit but she hardly ever thought of the other girls from her old school. It was as if they were part of a whole different life. Of course she remembered her mother and there were still times when her grief and loss would overwhelm her for a while. When that happened, Frankie would either shut herself in her room for a bit or take a walk with Loopy-Lu. The silly old chicken seemed to sense when she was upset and tagged along to give her a friendly peck or a sympathetic crow.

There was still so much she didn’t understand. They had told her that her mother had had a heart attack that was so catastrophic she had died almost immediately – but why had someone gone through all of her stuff? There was a hint that it might have been something to do with her knowing a Russian princess, but anyone could see her mother didn’t have many personal possessions, let alone anything valuable. Frankie had her own suspicions. There was talk of a foreign gentleman being seen at the house but she’d always blamed Mr Knight. When he’d turned up on her birthday and broken up the party, her mother had said: ‘What my Ernie and I had was something special.’ For years she’d thought that was significant, but now that she was older she realised it was nothing to do with owning a piece of jewellery. Her mother was trying to stop Mr Knight turning up whenever he wanted to and making advances. But he never listened and he could have come back to search for something.

There wasn’t a lot left from her old life. Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry had cleared up the mess the intruder had left behind in the rooms which had been her home with her mother, and they brought back a few bits and pieces. There was no money. Whoever searched the place had taken the rent money and the little Frankie knew her mother had put by for a rainy day. The doctor’s wife claimed her dress but she said she’d paid in advance, and although Frankie heard Aunt Bet telling Uncle Lorry she didn’t believe it, there was no proof to say otherwise. Aunt Bet took her mum’s leftover material to her WI meeting and some of the ladies used it to make baby dresses and pretty nightdress cases which went into their weekly sale to raise funds for needy causes. ‘At least it did somebody some good,’ Aunt Bet had said dryly.

Now, Frankie waved to her friend and crossed the road. Barbara was a fun-loving girl. She was quite a bit taller than Frankie and she fancied herself as very mature. Her mother had just bought her daughter her first brassiere and Barbara was very conscious of her burgeoning breasts. She was beginning to notice boys as well, especially Frankie’s cousin Alan. Frankie was pleased about that. It would come in handy as part of the plan.

The girls linked arms and headed for the Rivoli cinema where the beautiful Margaret Lockwood was starring in The Lady Vanishes. Barbara was full of a flirtation she’d just had with a boy on the bus so it was a while before Frankie could get a word in edgeways.

‘Listen, Barbara,’ she began, ‘There’s something I want you to do for me. Would you come to the race meeting on Saturday?’

Barbara pulled a face. ‘Not really. It’s so muddy. I’ll ruin my shoes.’

‘Can’t you wear wellingtons?’

‘Wellingtons!’ Barbara squeaked. ‘Don’t be silly! “A lady has to look elegant at all times”,’ she said, quoting Miss Rose, their Home Craft and Deportment teacher at school.

Frankie sighed. ‘It’s really important,’ she insisted.

Something in her voice must have convinced Barbara because she listened without interrupting as Frankie explained the situation. As they arrived outside the cinema and joined the queue, Barbara seemed hesitant and Frankie’s enthusiasm dipped when she saw the expression on her friend’s face.

‘Will your cousin Alan be there?’

‘He’s the one I want you to distract,’ said Frankie, getting a florin out of her purse for the cinema ticket.

Barbara swung her shoulders back so that the outline of her new bra under her jumper showed its full effect. ‘All right,’ she cooed. ‘You’re on.’

*

August Bank Holiday Monday was warm and sunny, even though it had rained all week. As a result, the track was muddy and rutted. Uncle Lorry and the boys had spent the morning marking out the course with posts and white tape so that by the time the officials from the Sussex Dirt Bike Trials Association arrived at around noon, everything was as it should be. The race meeting itself was due to begin at two.

Bet was alone in her kitchen doing the washing up. Lorry and the boys had come in to grab a hot drink and a bite to eat and she’d taken the opportunity to prepare a shepherd’s pie for tea. In a minute she would take a chair down by the farm gate to sell some eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers and a few bags containing the first crop of plums.

People started gathering at the trials just before one and made their way to the best viewpoints. A few hung around the start and some preferred the finishing line, but the majority trudged up the hill towards the grassy knoll with a line of trees beyond. From here, the views of the Sussex countryside were spectacular. Most spectators came prepared with sandwiches in a rucksack but some, who had probably already had their meal, relied on the mobile caravan and its cups of tea.

As Bet wiped the last plate, she glanced out of the kitchen window and something caught her eye. Frankie was walking towards the race track with a small suitcase in her hand. For a split second, Bet thought it might be the blue case full of her mother’s belongings, but as she leaned towards the window pane she could see that this suitcase was brown.

Frankie glanced nervously over her left shoulder and then her right. Bet pulled herself back from the window. It was then that she noticed Barbara running up towards Frankie. Bet frowned. What were they up to? The two girls had a brief exchange, then parted. Barbara headed towards the temporary shelter where the competitors gathered with their machines. Young riders from all over the county had descended on the farm and it was here that they registered and tied their entry numbers around their waists. Frankie, still carrying her suitcase, walked towards the toilet tent. Bet tut-tutted and dried her hands on the tea towel. If those girls made a nuisance of themselves there would be trouble.

Barbara was a bit scared that she’d give the game away while she got Frankie’s registration done but it turned out to be quite easy. All the riders queued behind a small trestle table. The officials on the other side of the table checked the name of the competitor against a list on a clipboard. One did the paperwork whilst the other handed out the race numbers, which were on a sort of bib that went on the rider’s back and tied around his waist at the front. All she had to do was say the name of the competitor and hand over the race fee.

By the time she’d reached the table, Barbara’s heart was in her mouth. Supposing they could see through the excuse she and Frankie had dreamt up? Supposing the officials frog-marched her away? Supposing they called the police? She was shaking like a leaf and her face flamed as she held out the papers.

The man behind the table looked her up and down and gave her a broad smile. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re not planning to race.’

Barbara shook her head. Behind her she could hear muffled laughter. Just as she’d practised with Frankie, Barbara leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The official rustled some papers and struggled not to smile. She watched him check the names on his clipboard and put a cross beside one of them. Then his colleague gave Barbara the number forty-six and she moved away from the table. She hadn’t gone very far before she heard the man say, ‘Poor blighter sent his sister ’cos he’s so bloody nervous he’s stuck in the bog.’ His comment was followed by a gale of masculine laughter.

Having made sure no one was looking, Frankie locked herself in one of the temporary toilets. It was only a wooden bench over a large hole and even at this early stage of the meeting it didn’t smell very pleasant. She put her suitcase over the gap and opened it up. It didn’t take long to change. She put her all-in-ones on over her overalls and tucked all of her blond hair into the leather cap. Pulling her scarf over her nose, she fastened the flaps firmly under her chin. Her new regulation pudding bowl helmet fitted over the top. She heard a slight sound on the other side of the door and Barbara whispered her name. Frankie opened the door and Barbara held up her registration papers and her number.

With her entry papers in her top pocket, Frankie pulled on her eye goggles. Not even her own aunt would recognise her now. She darted round the back of the toilets to where she’d parked her bike under a piece of canvas tarpaulin. Putting one foot on the suitcase, she kick-started the engine. Now she had reached the most dangerous part. Whatever she did, she had to keep the engine going. If she stalled she’d be out of the race and if anyone realised she was a woman, she’d be banned under the stupid ‘no girls allowed’ rule. As she passed the place where the officials sat at their tables, she saw her friend making eyes at Alan. Good old Barbara. She was doing a grand job.

Seven

Frankie took it steady getting to the start line. She knew if she went too fast she might draw attention to herself and if she went too slowly, she could wobble and fall sideways. There were about twenty or so riders in this race, the high-pitched whine of the engines now and then changing into a spluttering roar as men revved the throttles of their bikes. Frankie kept her head bent towards her chest. Her heart was in her mouth. It was imperative to keep her engine running. There was no way she could kick-start again without her foot on the suitcase and the minute Alan saw what she was doing, he would know it was her. After what seemed like an age, the green flag went down and they were off.

Lower down the field, Barbara was enjoying herself now. Having given Frankie her papers and race number, she had embarked on the next stage of the plan which was far more enjoyable: distracting Alan while Frankie made her way to the starting line. She found him with a small group of bikers admiring someone’s machine. When she said his name, he raised an eyebrow.

‘Barbara, what are you doing here?’

Barbara lowered her eyes in the same coquettish way she had seen the beautiful Jean Harlow do in her last film, Saratoga.

‘I came to see the races.’

‘No,’ said Alan, ‘I meant what are you doing here? This part is reserved for competitors and their machines.’

Barbara pretended to be horrified. ‘Oh my! I am so sorry.’ She looked about her. ‘I’m so confused,’ she said helplessly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Frankie in the line of riders making their way up the hill from the starting line. ‘Oh dear, dear. There’s white tape everywhere,’ Barbara wailed. ‘Which way do I go?’

Alan wiped his hands with a greasy-looking cloth and threw it onto the saddle. ‘Why don’t I show you?’ Behind them both, his mates sniggered.

‘Oh, would you?’ Barbara purred happily. ‘That would be wonderful.’

*

Frankie’s inexperience of racing became apparent almost straight away. As the faster riders took off, she was left floundering in a shower of mud, exhaust fumes and small stones. Her goggles protected her eyes but she was looking at the track through a brown smear. For a few frantic seconds she wobbled furiously but as luck would have it, she corrected the bike and held it steady while she hastily wiped her lenses with the palm of her gloved hand.

The first part of the track was up a steep incline. Frankie found herself leaning slightly forward in the saddle as she followed the pack. She knew the course like the back of her hand and negotiated the dry patch on the other side of the hill carefully.

With deep muddy furrows in front of her, Frankie put her legs out to balance herself but she didn’t actually touch down. Under the rules of the Association, a foot on the ground meant a penalty point.

Having caught up with the rest of the pack, she was beginning to enjoy herself. What with the whine of the engines, the smell of petrol, the taste of dirt in her mouth and – most of all – the speed, it was all so exhilarating. As she burst out of a small wooded area, she could see the start/finish line again. Hurrah! She’d done one lap; only nine more to go.

Down by the gate, Bet had almost sold out. People streamed by even though the race meeting had already started. She craned her neck as they came out of the woods but she didn’t recognise any of the riders. She did, however, spot Frankie’s friend Barbara with her son Alan. Alan had his arm draped around the girl’s shoulders. Barbara was gazing up at him. Bet frowned. What on earth was the boy thinking about? Barbara might be nearly a year older than Frankie but she was still scarcely more than a child. She’d have to have a word with Alan. Thank goodness Frankie was more sensible. She sighed. The school leaving age was fourteen and although Frankie wouldn’t be returning when term time started, she still didn’t have a job. It couldn’t be allowed to continue. The girl had to pay her own way in life. The time for messing around was over. There was nothing for it; Bet would have to take matters into her own hands.

As it turned out, barely half the field had managed to stay the course. Frankie waited by the side of the track for the results but she didn’t take her leather cap or the scarf off. The adjudicators totted up the points and everyone held their breath. First place Dick Manning, second place Keith Purcell, third place John Wilson, fourth place M. Clark. Frankie grinned. That was her. M. Clark was her mother’s maiden name; Moira Clark. She saw her cousin turn his head sharply but it was when she took off her goggles and her leather skull cap that the trouble began.

There was an audible gasp from the crowd when Frankie tossed her head and rubbed her fingers vigorously through her hair.

‘But he’s a woman!’

‘Who said a woman could ride in this competition? This is a man’s sport.’

Alan was the first by her side. ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ he hissed.

‘Well, I didn’t quite manage first,’ Frankie quipped, ‘but fourth place isn’t too bad for a beginner, is it?’

‘You may have been fourth in positioning, young lady,’ one of the adjudicators called out, ‘but on points you were second.’

‘You can’t do that. She cheated.’

‘I did not cheat!’ Frankie said indignantly.

‘Yes, you did. You’re a girl.’

‘Frankie, for goodness’ sake go home,’ Alan snapped.

‘Why?’ Frankie, hand on her hip, demanded to know.

‘You should be disqualified,’ someone else shouted. ‘It’s not fair, changing the rules like that. This is no place for women.’

‘But she’s not even a woman,’ someone else observed. ‘She’s only a silly school kid.’

The shouting grew louder and tensions were running high. The general consensus among the organisers was that if they allowed the result to stand, they would have a riot on their hands. At the end of a heated argument, Frankie found herself disqualified on the basis that she was not quite fifteen and of the female sex.

‘You’d better go back to the house,’ Alan said, steering her away.

Snatching her arm back and fuming inside, Frankie knew it was hopeless. She walked away with as much dignity as she could muster.

Ten minutes later, she and Barbara were back in the bike shed near the house. Frankie stamped her foot. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said crossly. ‘How could they do this to me?’

‘It does seem a little unfair,’ Barbara agreed.

‘A bit unfair,’ Frankie raged on. ‘It’s more than that. I came second in that race fair and square.’

They heard the chickens scatter as Aunt Bet came across the yard. As soon as she saw her face, Frankie knew she was in for a ticking off. Aunt Bet came into the shed all guns blazing. Barbara bid a hasty retreat.

‘How could you?’ Aunt Bet spat. ‘Embarrassing Uncle Lorry like that … and don’t interrupt me … against the rules … I haven’t finished yet … can’t always have what you want, my girl …’

Frankie gave up trying to explain and sat on a straw bale, staring at the ground in front of her while her aunt vented her spleen. Ten minutes later, her aunt left and the light level fell as someone else stood in the doorway. It was Uncle Lorry. Frankie’s heart sank. Was he going to be cross with her too?

‘Well, that was a turn-up for the books, wasn’t it?’ he said.

Frankie rose to her feet. Whilst she didn’t regret what she’d done, she felt uncomfortable because the last thing she’d wanted was to upset her uncle. ‘Look, Uncle Lorry, I’m really sorry if I embarrassed you …’

She didn’t get to finish the sentence because he hurried towards her and gave her a rough hug. ‘I never thought a little pipsqueak like you had it in her. Well done, my lass.’

As he released her, Frankie blinked. ‘You’re not angry?’

‘Angry? Why should I be?’

Frankie lowered her gaze. ‘Aunt Bet said I’d embarrassed you.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I’m far too proud of you for that. You leave your Aunt Bet to me.’

Eight

First thing on Tuesday morning, Aunt Bet took Frankie into Worthing. She told her she’d been talking to an egg customer who had mentioned a Saturday job with a view to a permanent position going in a florist along Montague Street. In Aunt Bet’s opinion it would be an ideal situation and for once Frankie agreed with her. Of all the suggestions she’d been presented with, this was the best so far. Frankie hadn’t got a clue what type of job she wanted but the usual girly jobs such as working in a shop or becoming a hairdresser didn’t appeal to her. Aunt Bet had come up with a few suggestions. She might like to be a waitress or become a shop assistant. Not really. Frankie preferred to be outdoors. She had been tempted for about five minutes by the thought of getting a job with Worthing Borough Council Parks and Gardens but that turned out to be mostly seasonal work and once again, no girls were allowed. As a florist she would be stuck indoors but at least she would be working with something organic.

The florist was half way along the street. Frankie was shown to the back of the shop where two girls were making up bouquets. They looked so amazing that Frankie immediately felt out of her depth. How would she manage to arrange flowers like that when there wasn’t an artistic bone in her body?

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Waite, the owner, ‘we shall have to train you to do the arrangements, but we’ll take it one step at a time. You will begin with simple tasks.’

At the end of the interview, Aunt Bet and Mrs Waite shook hands and it was agreed that Frankie would start next week. It was only as they walked away that Frankie realised that her new job would seriously curtail her dream of ever becoming a dirt bike rider if she ever did find a race meeting open to girls. Because of the strict Sunday Trading Laws, all the meetings were held on Saturday and she’d just agreed to a six-day week with a half day off on Monday.

*

Frankie couldn’t wait to tell Barbara about her new job but soon after they arrived at the cinema, her cousin Alan joined them. There was little conversation as they waited in the queue. Alan and Barbara only seemed to have eyes for each other and Frankie felt miffed. Even more annoyingly, Alan bought Barbara’s ticket but left Frankie to get her own. When they reached the stalls, Alan sat between them so there was no chance to talk at all before the film started. It was a good film, but Frankie was the only one watching it. At the end, after they’d all stood for the National Anthem, Frankie glared at Alan and Barbara. ‘You needn’t think I’m going to play gooseberry again.’

Barbara looked contrite but her cousin just grinned.

*

Frankie’s first day in the job at the florist’s was exhausting. As the junior, Frankie was given the most menial of tasks. She wasn’t allowed to do any arrangements, of course, but she had to keep the workshop clean and tidy. That meant frequently sweeping the floor and putting bits of stalk and fallen petals into a special bin. This was collected at the end of the day by the owner’s father for his compost heap. She made cups of tea for the girls doing the flowers and she was expected to run errands.

Frankie was amazed at the skill of the florists. In less than an hour, they could transform a humble gathering of flowers into a beautiful bouquet fit for a queen. Before the end of her first week, Frankie became aware of the pressures under which they worked. One consignment of flowers arrived in the shop but because the driver had lost his way, they had been in a hot van for far too long and were already wilting. As the blooms were needed for a wedding, everybody was in a flat spin. Another time, a customer complained about her bouquet. That called for diplomacy. There was nothing wrong with the blooms but Mrs Waite had to placate the customer in case she told her friends not to come to the shop.

On her third day Frankie was taken away from her usual jobs. Another girl who usually worked as a junior was ill. Her job was to make deliveries on a large bike with a basket on the front. It not only helped her get from place to place but it was a great way of advertising the skill of Mrs Waite’s florists. Frankie was asked to take her place until she got back. Making deliveries turned out to be the best part of the job. Mrs Waite would give Frankie a green slip with the customer’s address on it. Of course, she had to be careful that she didn’t disturb the arrangement in the basket but it gave her an opportunity to bike around the town and sometimes up the driveways of some really impressive houses. Frankie learned to be polite to the customers, even those who were being awkward or picky.

The arrangements she carried were so imaginative: a dish garden with desert cacti or a shopping basket with a beautiful display of summer roses held in jam jars inside the basket. Mrs Waite stressed that she should remind the customer to keep filling the jam jars with water, particularly before putting it in the centre of the table. The most attractive of all was Mrs Waite’s speciality called ‘Flowers of the Sea’. She had spent hours creating artificial blooms from sea shells for the central part of an arrangement.

By the end of her first week, Frankie had acquitted herself well and Mrs Waite told her she had a job for life. Frankie was pleased but in her heart of hearts that was the last thing she wanted. She was looking for something else; she didn’t know what, but something a bit more challenging. She was paid twenty-five shillings which was considered a good wage. Out of that she was expected to give Aunt Bet a pound for her keep. That left her with five bob for herself, so when Barbara, who had just started work in Woolworth’s, suggested going to a dance in the Assembly Rooms, Frankie was quite keen. ‘But what about Alan?’

‘He’s off to a race meeting somewhere in Surrey,’ said Barbara, and Frankie remembered the conversation at the tea table a couple of days ago when Alan told his parents he was going to take part in the Bagshot Heath scramble.

Entry to the dance hall cost one and six and they planned to buy a drink in the interval, so Frankie could just about afford it.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to buy their own drinks. Barbara met a young lad called Norman on the dance floor so he and his mate bought the girls a round. Barbara and her new friend seemed to be getting on like a house on fire but Frankie felt self-conscious being with Norman’s friend. It was obvious that he had little interest in Frankie and she was too embarrassed to ask him any questions, so it was an awkward evening.

*

Monday found her back at the shop sweeping the floors as the other junior was back from sick leave. Frankie could hardly believe her eyes when she walked in.

‘Doreen!’

It was Doreen Toms. The last time Frankie had seen her old friend was when she was ten years old. She had become a rather plain-looking girl. Her hair was straight and pulled back from her face with a Kirby grip, and she wore rather dowdy clothes. She smiled shyly when she saw Frankie but said nothing.

‘How lovely to see you,’ Frankie burbled. ‘When they told me you were called Doreen, I never dreamed it was you. How long have you worked here?’

‘Not long.’

‘I only started last week,’ Frankie went on. ‘This is my first job.’

‘There are two deliveries this morning,’ Mrs Waite interrupted as she handed Doreen two green slips.

‘My mother says,’ Doreen said, her voice still thick with cold, ‘can I stay indoors this week?’ She coughed noisily.

Mrs Waite looked annoyed. ‘If you can’t do the work …’ she began.

‘I don’t mind going out, Mrs Waite,’ Frankie interrupted.

Her employer glared at her.

‘Just until Doreen is better,’ Frankie added quickly.

Mrs Waite pursed her lips and sniffed loudly. ‘Oh very well. Just for this week but I really can’t have my employees telling me what they will or will not do.’

As she handed Frankie the green slips, Doreen mouthed a ‘thank you’ behind the older woman’s back.

Nine

Their days at the florist shop were so busy that it was hard to find a time to talk. For a while, Frankie and Doreen seemed like passing ships in the night. There wasn’t even time for a chat after work. Doreen’s mother came to meet her and always seemed anxious for her daughter to get home. Frankie was left watching them head for the bus stop. Poor Doreen. She’d always seemed timid and shy, sort of on the outside looking in, even when the girls in the florist made a cup of tea or there was a lull in the work. It was little wonder with such a harridan for a mother. Mrs Toms hadn’t exactly been very nice at the picnic as Frankie recalled, although her own mother had made no comment at the time. In fact Frankie had never heard her mother say anything bad about anyone.

Before long they were taking Christmas orders and Frankie surprised herself by settling down in the job. She knew she wouldn’t stay at the florist’s forever, but for now she was content to stay for at least a year to get a good reference. The work was varied and she was learning all the time.

‘Cut your blooms to different lengths,’ Mrs Waite told her. ‘Taller flowers in the middle and the shorter stems on the outside. That way your bouquet looks fuller.’

Doreen developed a flair for making terrariums. Mrs Waite taught her how to plant orchids and ferns in a little soil at the bottom of a goldfish bowl. The trick was to peg them down with hair pins. Everybody else’s terrarium looked good. Doreen’s was always sensational and whenever her efforts were on display, they always sold first.

Occasionally the two girls worked side by side on the bench. That was the only time they had a conversation.

‘Where did you go after …?’ Doreen hesitated.

‘After my mother died?’ Frankie said. ‘I went to live with my aunt; mum’s sister.’

‘Were you happy?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Frankie. ‘I still am. In fact I sometimes forget that I’m not part of the immediate family.’

Doreen gave her a wan smile.

‘My cousins, Alan and Ronald, are motorbike mad,’ Frankie went on. ‘They taught me how to ride.’

Doreen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You actually ride a motorbike?’

Frankie nodded. ‘I love it. I took part in a race a few weeks ago but I can’t do it again because I’m a girl. Besides, most of the big races are on Saturdays. There are a couple of circuits where they race on Sundays though.’ She paused and looked at her friend. ‘Why not come along sometime?’

‘Mother wouldn’t like it,’ said Doreen, her voice flat. ‘We always go to the hall on Sundays.’

‘That’s lovely, Doreen,’ Mrs Wait interrupted as she looked over her shoulder. ‘Frankie, finish up here and come through to the office. I’ve got a couple of deliveries for you.’

‘Yes, Mrs Waite,’ said Frankie, and, scraping the bits into the bin, she added to her friend, ‘Fancy coming to the pictures with me on Saturday?’

Doreen shook her head. ‘I’m not allowed,’ she said.

‘Why ever not?’ Frankie gasped. ‘It’s a good picture. It’s not an “X” or anything.’

‘My mother considers the cinema to be a den of iniquity,’ said Doreen dully. ‘She says it’s the devil’s playground.’

Frankie blinked in surprise. ‘What on earth does she think goes on in there?’

Doreen shrugged. ‘I don’t know but I can’t come.’

‘It’s only the pictures,’ Frankie muttered as she headed for the office.

*

Alan was becoming quite well known on the motor scramble circuit. He hadn’t been placed at the Donnington course but he had come in third at Bagshot Heath.

Frankie could only look on enviously. She still tinkered with the bikes in her spare time, little that there was, and her knowledge of the machines had advanced enormously.

In the run up to Christmas, Frankie had her own money for the first time in her life. She bought a tin of boiled sweets for the girls at work to share. She also found some really good presents for the family. She’d saved hard and managed to get a lovely little oil dispenser for Alan, some handkerchiefs for Uncle Lorry, a fountain pen for Ronald (good old Woolworth’s), and a new torch for Aunt Bet – her old one was knackered even if it did have new batteries. It was very satisfying to be able to get them something she’d bought using her own money. They had been wonderful to her and Frankie would never forget it. The holiday season brought with it a few fond memories of her mother which were not without tears. It was five years since she’d been gone and Frankie still missed her.

Aunt Bet was making some Sussex Plum Heavies, always popular with her boys. She’d served them up so often she could almost make them without looking but a movement down by the old bike shed distracted her. Bet could hardly believe her own eyes. There was her son Alan with that Barbara Vickers again. Alan had her pinned to the wall of the shed with his hand inside Barbara’s coat and judging by the way the girl was gyrating, it wasn’t around her waist. The pair began kissing passionately. Bet frowned crossly. Hadn’t she warned her son about that girl just a month or so back? The little madam. She’d always thought that girl was trouble. Did she have no shame? Alan was virtually eating her. The way she led the boys on, she’d be having a baby before long.

‘Well, not with my son, you won’t,’ Bet muttered.

On the Friday before Christmas, Doreen and Frankie were both given time off. All the orders had been done and Mrs Waite said there was no point in hanging around in case another customer came into the shop. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘tomorrow will be very busy with husbands doing their last-minute shopping, so off you go and enjoy yourselves.’

‘You know, it’s at times like this that I miss my mother the most,’ said Frankie as they strolled down Montague Street. ‘We used to come into Worthing occasionally to do some window shopping.’

‘I remember her so well,’ Doreen said. ‘She was really kind to me and I loved her stories.’

Frankie smiled. ‘She certainly had an eventful life.’

‘I particularly liked the story about the day she fought off that Russian and saved the princess,’ Doreen went on.

‘I liked that one too,’ said Frankie.

‘Do you still have that beautiful doll she made you?’

‘She sits by my bed,’ said Frankie with a sigh. ‘You know, my mother was so full of life that for ages I struggled to believe she had gone.’ She paused, adding, ‘And I blamed myself.’

Doreen raised her eyebrows. ‘Why would you do that?’

Frankie shrugged. ‘I suppose I thought I might have saved her if I’d got home from school earlier.’

‘But she didn’t take her own life, did she?’ Doreen gasped.

‘No,’ said Frankie.

They had wandered into Woolworth’s. Doreen squeezed Frankie’s arm. ‘People said she’d been dead a long time before Mrs Dickenson found her.’

‘I heard that too,’ Frankie agreed. She was standing at the lipstick counter. She had two colours but she only wore lipstick when she went to the pictures or the Saturday dance with Barbara. Frankie twisted the end of a Max Factor lipstick to reveal a bright and luscious red. Perhaps she should wear lipstick every day? It was about time she started behaving like a young woman now that she was working. ‘What do you think of this colour?’

‘It’s lovely,’ Doreen said absent-mindedly.

‘It’s called Carmine,’ said Frankie, but Doreen wasn’t really listening.

‘You know you weren’t the only one who blamed herself about your mother,’ Doreen said quietly. ‘I used to worry that her heart attack was all my mother’s fault.’

For a moment, Frankie froze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh Frankie, the day she died, they had the most fearful row.’ Doreen’s face was the picture of misery and Frankie could see tears standing in her eyes. ‘All my mother wanted to do was to save you.’

‘You’re scaring me,’ said Frankie. ‘Save me from what?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ Doreen went on. ‘The tarot cards in that little tin on the mantelpiece.’

‘And what do you think you are doing here, young lady?’ A harsh and angry voice interrupted them, making them both jump.

Doreen visibly trembled as her mother pushed herself between them. She leaned towards her daughter and hissed in her ear. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of painting your mouth like a common Jezebel.’

‘Actually I was the one looking at lipsticks,’ said Frankie. Her gaze went to Mrs Toms’ shabby coat pulled tightly around her middle with the buttons straining. She had no hat but her hand-knitted scarf was over her head and tied under her chin.

‘Oh, I might have guessed you had something to do with it,’ Mrs Toms sneered, her steely grey eyes fixed on Frankie. ‘Don’t I always say, corruption breeds corruption.’

‘Doreen wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ Frankie insisted.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Mrs Toms demanded of her daughter.

Doreen seemed to have shrunk a couple of feet. Her face was ashen and she stared at her feet like a naughty little girl. Frankie could have sworn she was trembling too.

‘Mrs Waite gave us the rest of the afternoon off,’ Frankie blurted out, ‘so I suggested …’

‘Is everything all right?’ The shop assistant had joined them.

‘Everything will be perfectly all right,’ Mrs Toms retorted, ‘as soon as my daughter and I are out of this palace of sin.’ She snatched at her daughter’s arm. ‘Come along, my girl. We’re going.’

Frankie stared after Doreen and her mother, feeling quite sorry for them. They must be very poor. Mrs Toms’ shoes were so worn down they went right over as she walked. When the pair reached the door, Frankie turned back to the shop assistant.

‘What was all that about?’ the girl asked.

Frankie shrugged. She felt surprisingly upset. Replacing the lipstick, she turned to go.

The shop assistant sniffed loudly and walked away muttering, ‘Nutty as a fruit cake.’

Doreen didn’t come to work the next day, nor the day they went back to work after Christmas. Mrs Waite contacted her and Mrs Toms said her daughter had left the shop and would not return. Frankie was both sad and curious. Poor Doreen. Fancy having an old battle-axe like that for a mother; and what did Doreen mean when she said her mother and Mrs Toms had had a row about the tarot cards? What were tarot cards anyway?

Back at the farm, Aunt Bet had bided her time until she and Alan were alone with little chance of interruption. They were both in the scullery; he was cleaning his best shoes and she was folding the washing ready to iron.

‘Looks to me like you’re quite keen on that Barbara Vickers,’ she said, willing herself to sound casual.

Her son pulled a face. ‘She’s all right, I suppose.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Bet said coldly.

He turned his head to look at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His voice had an edge to it.

‘When you get to my age,’ said Bet, ‘you learn how to take stock of people and that girl is trouble with a capital “T”. She’s the type who can trap a boy into marriage and …’

Alan snorted. ‘You needn’t worry on that score, mum. I’ve no intention of marrying Barbara Vickers.’

‘Well, see to it that you give her no reason to expect it,’ said Bet, sweeping out of the room.

Ten
Worthing, June 1939

There was nothing on at the pictures so Barbara suggested that she and Frankie go to the matinee variety show at the pier pavilion. Over the past year, the two girls had fallen into a sort of routine. They often met on a Wednesday night to go to the pictures and on a Saturday they went to a show in the afternoon or to a dance in the evening. Today they had managed to get good seats and the show was enjoyable. Frankie particularly liked the glittering costumes of the dancing girls. The comedian Cyril Fletcher recited some very funny poems and Dorothy Ward led everybody in the theatre in some community singing. The lead singer of the show was an up-and-coming name (or so the compère told the audience) – Conrad Merriman. Good-looking with deep-set eyes and black hair, Conrad was everybody’s idea of tall dark and handsome and when he smiled he had a long dimple on his cheek. Frankie didn’t like him that much but Barbara thought he was wonderful. After the show Barbara insisted they go to the stage door and she was amply rewarded when Conrad Merriman emerged.

‘Can I have your autograph?’ said Barbara, rushing towards him.

‘Of course, darling,’ he simpered and, giving her a kiss on her cheek, he signed her programme then looked up, expecting Frankie to want the same treatment. Embarrassed, Frankie handed him her programme and he signed it.

‘A few of us are going onto the pier for some ice cream,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join us?’

Barbara was overjoyed so they joined in. There were several in the group including some of the dancing girls and another comedian called Stainless Steven. They all went to the kiosk and bought their cones, then everyone strolled along the wooden planks towards the other pavilion at the end of the pier. Conrad slipped his arm around Barbara’s waist and pulled her close.

‘Put her down, darling,’ someone said. ‘You don’t know where she’s been.’

‘She’s too young to have been anywhere,’ said another voice and everyone laughed.

Barbara wasn’t too happy with that remark, but she was delighted when Conrad kissed her cheek again and said, ‘I think she’s absolutely gorgeous, aren’t you, darling?’

Frankie struck up a conversation with one of the dancing girls, Lily, who said she was from York. ‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a booking for the whole season.’

‘You looked beautiful on the stage,’ Frankie said. ‘I loved the top hat routine.’

Lily did a few steps just for her and they both laughed. Halfway along the pier, there was a photo booth. You could stand in behind a wooden frame with Tarzan, Jane and a monkey picture on it. The faces had been cut out so day trippers were invited to stick their heads through the holes and pose for a picture. Conrad stood behind the Tarzan cut out and invited Barbara to join him as Jane. Frankie was encouraged to bend down low and put her head through the monkey hole. While the photographer snapped away, Frankie was startled to feel Conrad’s hand wandering over her bottom. She stood up smartly.

‘Just one more,’ said the photographer but Frankie was already walking away.

*

A day or two later, they were sitting at the dinner table when Alan told his parents about meeting Mr Jarvis, Durrant’s promoter. ‘He’s going to take me on next year for the Isle of Man TT.’

Uncle Lorry was bursting with excitement. ‘Dear Lord alive, you’ll be up there with all the best riders. What an experience, lad.’

‘No,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘Alan, you can’t go. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Now then, Bet love,’ Uncle Lorry began.

‘Don’t you “Now then, Bet love” me!’ she snapped and she banged a plate down in front of him. ‘You know Percy Pritlove was killed there last year.’

‘You can’t stop me, Mum,’ said Alan shaking the HP sauce onto his dinner. ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions.’

‘This is a chance of a lifetime, Bet,’ Lorry protested mildly. ‘You can’t say no just because you’re afraid he might get hurt.’

Frankie could tell her aunt was upset but she didn’t say anything. As soon as the men went back outside and Aunt Bet stood up to put the plates in the sink, Frankie came and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘He’s a really good rider,’ she said. ‘He thinks things through and he doesn’t take stupid risks. That’s why he’s been chosen.’

Aunt Bet nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘And your uncle’s right as well. I’m just being silly. I know he’s a grown man but he’s still my boy.’

The two women shared a hug. ‘And just look at you,’ said Aunt Bet suddenly holding her at arm’s length. ‘Soon to be sixteen and quite the young lady already.’ Frankie gave her a half smile. ‘What?’ said Aunt Bet. ‘What is it?’

‘Now you’ll think I’m being silly,’ said Frankie, sitting back down at the table.

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said her aunt.

All the time she’d lived with them, they’d never really talked about her mother. The grief they’d both felt, they’d kept it private. It wasn’t a deliberate decision, it just happened to be that way. Frankie knew any one of them would have listened if she’d needed to talk but she’d slipped into the habit of managing on her own.

Frankie took a deep breath. ‘Before she left the shop, Doreen told me her mother had taken something from my house. Something belonging to my mother – tarot cards.’

Aunt Bet seemed surprised. ‘I can’t imagine your mother having tarot cards,’ she said. ‘I was the one who worried about the future and superstitions. I got it from your gran, I suppose. Your mother was different. She was very much a no-nonsense sort of person.’

Frankie frowned. ‘What are tarot cards anyway?’

‘They’re supposed to be a guide for living,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘People use them to find out what’s going to happen in the future.’

After hearing that, Frankie had to agree that her aunt was probably right. Her mother had had no time for what she called mumbo-jumbo, such as predicting the future.

‘Anyway, why would Doreen’s mother take something that didn’t belong to her?’ said Aunt Bet. ‘I thought she was religious.’

‘She is,’ said Frankie.

‘Then what was she doing stealing Moira’s things?’

‘Doreen seemed to think she was trying to save me.’

Aunt Bet frowned and shook her head slowly.

‘I often think about the things my mother had,’ Frankie said wistfully. ‘I remember some playing cards and a white cat that used to be on the mantelpiece.’ She smiled. ‘She always told me not to touch it but when she wasn’t looking, I used to stroke it.’

Aunt Bet laid her hand gently over the top of Frankie’s. ‘Stay there, ducks,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

Her aunt hurried upstairs and came back down a few minutes later with a little suitcase. As she seldom dusted up high, the case was covered with a thick layer of grime. She found a damp cloth and a moment or two later, she put the case in front of Frankie.

‘I wasn’t sure when to give you this,’ she said. ‘I was going to wait until you left home or when you got married but I think now is the right time.’

Frankie looked up. ‘I’ve never seen this before.’

‘The case is mine,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘But the things inside belonged to your mother and now they belong to you. You may want to keep some, you may want to get rid of some, it’s up to you.’ She smiled. ‘I’m going to leave you now,’ she went on. ‘The men won’t be back until tea time and judging by the things in that case, you’ll be a little while. Take your time. I’ve got plenty to do upstairs.’

Taking her box of dusters and cleaning things, she left the room and the door clicked shut. Frankie stared at the lid of the case for some time before she found the courage to open it. The first thing she noticed was the smell. She couldn’t define it, but somehow or other it was exclusive to her old home. Five years of being shut up on the top of the wardrobe hadn’t taken it away. A mixture of Lily of the Valley (her mother’s favourite soap) and blackberries; the smell of silks and other materials she used for her dressmaking. It was all there. Perhaps it was only her imagination but it made Frankie’s heart flutter and brought a lump to her throat. She stared at the contents.

A few official papers rested on the top. Frankie turned them over but didn’t examine them closely. They included her mother’s marriage certificate and Frankie’s birth certificate. She spotted a little pink card which said ‘congratulations on the birth of your daughter’. Next she found a black-edged card announcing her father’s death and a misshapen lump of baked clay – a pot Frankie had made at school. Her mother had kept it on the mantelpiece and used it to store her long tapers for lighting the fire. Frankie smiled, recalling her mother’s reaction when she’d presented it to her. ‘Oh, Frankie, it’s beautiful! How clever you are.’ Well, it wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t one bit clever. It was hideous, but the love in her mother’s voice had told her something very different on the day she’d brought it home. Frankie’s eyes smarted.

Next she found a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon. It would take a while to read them but a glance at the back of the one of the envelopes told her they had been written by her father. It was stamped ‘Somerley House, Ellingham, Ringwood, Hants,’ the convalescent home where her father had started his road to recovery. She remembered her mother once telling her that they had transferred him from there to Cecil’s Red Cross Hospital, Chappell Croft in West Worthing just before they’d married.

Laying the letters down, she picked up the white cat, only now that she looked at it more closely she could see it wasn’t a cat at all. It was an exquisitely carved ivory lioness. Where on earth had her mother got that from?

Frankie found a few more things which were meaningless to her but obviously had been treasures to her mother: a broken watch, a few bits of jewellery, two grainy photographs, one of her mother with a young man and another of her mother standing on her own in front of a large house.

Frankie heard a footfall behind her and looked up to see her aunt standing beside her.

‘All right, my dear?’ she asked anxiously. She held out a folded handkerchief and shook it open. Frankie hadn’t even been aware that she was crying. She wiped her wet cheeks and blew her nose, then holding up the photograph she said, ‘Who is that man standing next to my mother?’

‘Why, that’s your father,’ said Aunt Bet sitting down beside her, ‘before he went to war.’

Frankie looked more closely. He was a handsome man, no more than twenty, with thick wavy hair. He stood close to her mother but not actually touching. ‘I never saw a picture of him before,’ she said quietly. ‘What was he like?’

Aunt Bet smiled. ‘I liked him a lot. Before the war he was funny and a bit of a practical joker. He enjoyed singing too.’

‘Go on,’ said Frankie sensing there was more to come.

Her aunt took the photograph in her hands. ‘They used to ride on a tandem. Went all over the place.’ She chuckled. ‘I remember him telling us that one day they went to see his auntie and uncle. His uncle was famous for his home-made wine and your mother and father had a couple of glasses. When they left, your dad reckoned they did five miles in about fifteen minutes before they both fell off the bike and into a hedge.’

Frankie smiled, imagining the scene. ‘Why didn’t Mum have any photographs of him after he came back from the war?’

Aunt Bet seemed embarrassed and made to leave the table.

‘No, tell me,’ Frankie insisted.

Aunt Bet laid her hand on Frankie’s arm. ‘He was so terribly injured,’ she said quietly. ‘His poor face was …’ She faltered, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘But your mother never stopped loving him. She didn’t seem to notice how dreadful he looked but she didn’t want any photographs. She wanted us to remember him as he was.’

‘She never told me,’ said Frankie. ‘What happened to his face anyway?’

Aunt Bet seemed reluctant to say any more but eventually she put her hand to the side of her face in a sweeping gesture. ‘All of this side of his face was shot away,’ she said simply. ‘The shell fragment didn’t hit any vital organs or an artery but your poor father was left with only half a face.’

Frankie was stunned. ‘But Mum said he was gassed,’ she protested.

‘Well, she wouldn’t want you to know about his face, would she?’ said Aunt Bet. ‘You were only a child. She didn’t want you to be upset.’

Frankie turned back to the case. There wasn’t a lot left inside but she began to empty everything out and put it onto the table.

‘They bought that silly ornament when they were on their honeymoon,’ said Aunt Bet holding up a china boot with ‘A present from Weymouth’ on it.

Frankie lifted an upside-down book from the very bottom of the case. When she turned it over, she took in her breath sharply. Aunt Bet had got up from the table and was making a fresh pot of tea. Frankie quickly leafed through the pages. It was a children’s book, beautifully illustrated on every page. She didn’t need to read the story. She knew it off by heart. A Russian princess comes into a dress shop. A fearsome-looking man with a knife follows her in and it’s obvious that he has evil intent. To save the princess, the shop assistants bundle the princess into a big wicker basket and cover her with clothes.

Frankie stared at the pages in bewilderment. She felt angry, confused and disappointed. She had loved that story and had grown up believing it to be true. ‘Tell me again,’ she would beg her mother and her mother had repeated it word for word as if it had really happened. Frankie had been so proud of her mother, just a chit of a girl, as she would say, standing up to that man. Her mother was her hero, courageous and brave. People often said it sounded like something from a story book. Frankie had never believed them, but it was true, wasn’t it? Her mother had pretended to be something she wasn’t and Frankie had grown up believing a lie, a great big fat lie. Tears pricked her eyes. She felt sick, shaky and faint.

Aunt Bet put a cup of tea in front of her. ‘There you are, duck,’ she said.

Frankie looked up at her. ‘It wasn’t true, was it,’ she said brokenly, ‘about the Russian? She made it all up.’ Slamming the book shut, Frankie threw it back into the suitcase before running up the stairs to her room.

Eleven
Broadwater, Sussex, September 1939

‘In this grave hour, perhaps the most fateful in our history …’

Frankie willed herself to concentrate. It was six o’clock and they were gathered around the wireless. The King’s speech made for uncomfortable listening but not because of its content. It was well known that the King had a terrible stammer and that he found making speeches purgatory itself so they listened with dread that he might suddenly falter and have to abandon his speech altogether.

‘For the second time in the lives of most of us,’ his Majesty continued, ‘we are at war. Over and over again we have tried to find a peaceful way out of the differences between ourselves and those who are now our enemies; but it has been in vain …’

Frankie looked around the room. They had already got used to the idea that the country was at war when Mr Chamberlain’s earlier broadcast had spelled out the gravity of the situation. If she survived this war, she would be sure to tell her children and grandchildren what it had been like. The whole family was there listening to the King, plus Mrs Mac and few of their near neighbours who didn’t have a wireless of their own; she supposed that they were all as concerned as she was.

‘… I now call my people at home, and my peoples across the seas, who will make our cause their own. I ask them to stand calm and firm and united in this time of trial. The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead … with God’s help, we shall prevail.’

When the national anthem began, it was with a sense of relief that everybody in Aunt Bet’s kitchen rose to their feet.

‘Not one stutter,’ murmured Mrs Mac as the anthem died away and they all sat again. ‘Well done, your Majesty.’

That raised a wry smile to everyone’s lips.

Frankie got up and went outside. She needed time to think. As soon as she appeared dear old Loopy-Lu hurried towards her. She wasn’t so agile anymore and couldn’t move as quickly as she once did but even at seven years old, she was a force to be reckoned with in the henhouse. Frankie absent-mindedly picked her up and made her way to the bike barn. She stood in the doorway breathing in the smell of engine oil and looked around at the machines which meant so much to her. There was talk of all public meetings being closed down for the duration of the war.

And what of the rest of her life? Would she ever meet a boy and fall in love? Several lads had asked her out and she occasionally went to the pictures with somebody or to a dance but there had never been anyone special. Just lately, what with all this talk of war and Hitler, she’d been thinking a lot about her mother again. Oh, why did she have to die like that? She’d taken a walk around to their old place and looked over the fence. Whoever lived there now had let the pretty little garden go and the windows were badly in need of a clean. She didn’t stay long. That horrible Sidney Knight opened the door and shouted at her.

Barbara had stopped coming to the farm and although nothing was said, Alan didn’t take her out any more. Not that Barbara seemed to care. She was too busy enjoying life. As far as Frankie knew she was still with Conrad, who had stayed for the whole summer season in the Pavilion Theatre.

Frankie couldn’t stand him. Conrad was nowhere near as wonderful as Barbara seemed to think he was. She couldn’t forget that day when they had their picture taken on the pier, how he had his arm around Barbara’s waist while at the same time he was touching Frankie’s bottom in an over-familiar way. He’d even tried to make a date with Frankie when Barbara went to the ladies’ room and he was always flirting with other girls in the company.

Frankie had tried to talk to her friend about it but she was having none of it.

‘How dare you!’ she’d shrieked. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re just jealous, that’s what it is.’

‘Oh, Barbara,’ said Frankie, ‘you know I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true. He kisses everyone in sight.’

‘That’s the way they are in show business,’ Barbara had said haughtily. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

A tetchy silence had descended between them.

‘Anyway, what about Norman Miles?’ Frankie eventually asked. ‘He seemed like a nice chap.’

‘Norman is boring,’ Barbara said dismissively. ‘Conrad is going places. You mark my word, he’ll be the star of the show before long.’

Frankie had signed inwardly. Yes, and pigs might fly, she’d thought to herself. She was upset that she and Barbara had fallen out, but what could she do? Conrad was a cad but Barbara just couldn’t see it. All she could do was hope and pray that her friend would come to her senses before she got hurt.

Although the rift with Barbara was upsetting, now that the country was at war, Frankie supposed her little business would flounder as well. She had a nice little side line doing repairs or souping up old bikes to make them faster, but now that war had been declared, she supposed all that would change. Who would have time to take a ride out into the country on his motorbike and sidecar if there was a war on? No more race meetings; no more scrambles. Would she ever get to ride in competitions? She sat on the chair by the bench and stroked the hen with a heavy heart.

A footfall in the doorway made her turn her head. It was Alan.

‘I’m joining up,’ he said dully.

Frankie nodded. ‘I thought you might.’

‘Mum won’t like it,’ he said. ‘She’ll be upset when I tell her so I want you to help her.’

‘Of course,’ said Frankie. ‘Once she’s got used to the idea, she’ll be all right.’

He nodded curtly and turned away. ‘Bloody Hitler.’

She watched him go and sighed. So this was it. She was just sixteen years old and once again her life had changed forever.

Twelve

Sidney Knight sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. War. What was he going to do now? There had been talk at the racetracks that if war came, the racing calendar would be suspended. For Sidney, nothing could be worse.

That girl had been here. He’d seen her standing by the fence and looking up at the house. He’d had to duck behind the curtain in case she saw him. All grown up she was and quite a looker too. How old was she now? Fifteen, sixteen? It was then that he’d realised that it was six years almost to the day that her mother had died. She had her mother’s look about her; the way she stood, the way she held her head; got her hair too. But what was she doing back here, for goodness’ sake? He saw her reach her hand over the fence and pull a branch towards her and held his breath as she bent to smell a rose. All at once he felt angry. Marching to his front door, he pulled it open and stood on the doorstep. ‘What you doing, you nosey little tike?’ he demanded. ‘Leave that alone!’

She’d blanched. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I didn’t mean anything, Mr Knight. I’m sorry.’

‘Then bugger off and don’t come back,’ he’d snapped.

She’d thrown him a hurt look and started to run. Back in the house he’d sworn out loud and kicked the hall stand. Everything was going bloody wrong these days. The horses hadn’t been good to him. He was running out of assets, having sold his father’s house a couple of years ago to pay off his gambling debts. The Post Office money orders had stopped coming. He’d backed a sure fire horse at the Doncaster meeting but it had come in last but one. Now the bank account was almost empty. He’d thought about letting out the top floor rooms but he couldn’t risk a tenant snooping around up there. He hadn’t been upstairs since the day she’d died. The terrible smell and the mould on the walls had lingered for a lot longer than he’d thought possible. It had even filtered into the rooms he used downstairs. Of course, it hadn’t helped having a broken gutter which let in the rain. He supposed he should have seen to it when he’d got the money from his father’s place but he didn’t want builders in the house. Besides, there was this filly running in the Derby. And now that bloody girl was back smelling his roses. Grabbing a pair of scissors from the kitchen, he went back outside and hacked the bush down as best he could.

His temper gone, he sighed. War. No race meetings and what was even more dreadful, men of his age were being conscripted into the army. He couldn’t go to war. He wasn’t the type. What did he care about bloody Hitler? All he wanted in life was a few bob to put each way on a horse. Was that too much to ask for?

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