A Winter Hope Read online

  Contents

  Part One: 1932–39

  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

  Part Two: 1939–42

  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

  Part Three: 1943–47

  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

  Epilogue: 1957

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Welcome to the world of Sheila Newberry

  Meet Sheila Newberry

  A letter from the Author

  A Recipe for a Celebration Fruit Cake

  Don’t miss Sheila Newberry’s next book The Meadow Girls

  Memory Lane Club

  Tales from Memory Lane

  Readers First

  Copyright

  For Gladys Pattemore,

  a staunch friend and

  inspiration to her fellow writers

  PART ONE

  1932–39

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ROW OF RED BRICK Victorian villas with sash windows and formidable chimney stacks seemed to stare aloofly at the cheerful terrace of pebble-dashed new houses opposite. The occupants of the older properties had lost their status, such as it was, when developers demolished the crumbling mansion house and began building on the site of the old orchards. This was in the few optimistic years after the war, before the General Strike. All that remained of what had been almost the last vestige of the pastoral past was a lone apple or pear tree in each small, square back garden. This was not due to sentiment on the builders’ part: more a sop to halt indignant protests from the villa residents.

  When the Hope family moved in to Number Five Kitchener Avenue, they discovered that the old tree was blighted and the fruit scabby and sour. Rather like the expression on the face, which appeared between twitching curtains upstairs at Lahana House over the road.

  Fred Hope opened the front gate, set in the middle of a neat privet hedge, with an exaggerated flourish. He winked at Miriam, his young wife, heavily pregnant with their first child, leaning, pale and perspiring against the closed door.

  ‘O be joyful!’ he encouraged cheerfully. ‘Here we are – in our new home, and in time for Christmas, just as we’d hoped. Just five minutes from the station and all downhill from the Jubilee clock in the High Street. But, we’re on the up, Mirry, never mind the mortgage, eh?’

  ‘Fred dear, it’s £750. It’s 1932 now – it’ll take twenty-five years to pay that off . . . ’ She thought that the proximity to the station and shops was all that had concerned Fred. What had clinched it for her, only she couldn’t tell him so, of course, was The Palace, with that sure promise of dark, hazy magic within. Mirry was a devotee of the Pictures. When they were in the poky London flat, she had visited the cinema most afternoons, brushing her hair with eau de cologne afterwards to disguise the tell-tale lingering smell of smoke. Not that a cigarette had ever passed Mirry’s lips. However, going to the Pictures would soon be a rare treat, for didn’t babies take over your lives?

  They were among the fortunate few. They had married during the Depression, which, of course, was not over yet. Fred was a civil servant, with a secure future. This move showed his confidence in that.

  Barbara, Mirry’s fourteen-year-old sister was to live with them. Mum was moving in with her sister and brother-in-law. It made good sense, to share living expenses, now they were retired.

  Bar already had a job lined up, at the new Woolworths in the High Street. She had gazed openly at the curtain twitcher, as they waited there for the estate agent to arrive with the key and the pantechnicon with their modest worldly goods. ‘Not as grand as they’d like us to think they are, I reckon – what’s that board say, behind that straggly hedge?’ she wondered.

  ‘Don’t stare, Bar,’ Mirry reproved her, but knowing that Bar would, anyway. She hoped it wouldn’t prove too much of a responsibility taking her on. It had been Fred’s idea, of course – she couldn’t help being jealous of his fondness for her pretty young sister – fancy him thinking Bar would be a help in the house after the baby arrived . . . she was already showing signs of becoming far too fond of going out and having fun. It wasn’t fair: Bar had naturally wavy dark hair in a thick bob, green-flecked eyes and deep dimples in her unblemished cheeks. Mirry, at twenty-two, still sighed over the odd spot. She determinedly twisted pipe cleaners in her fine mousy locks each night but, at the first suspicion of rain, the curls unwound and hung limply. If only she could pluck up the courage to have a permanent wave; but she worried about being literally plugged into the electricity supply. There was a hairdressing salon next door to The Palace – you could hardly miss the pungent smell of ammonia mingling with scented setting lotion. Mirry hated having to wear glasses, but they were essential. No one notices I’ve got nice eyes, too, she said to herself. Fred’s so handsome, whatever did he see in me?

  Bar concluded, having had a good squint at the inscription on the board, for she wouldn’t admit that her eyesight was not exactly perfect either: ‘Ooh, it’s a dancing academy; ballroom, ballet and tap . . . Beatrice Boam, Proprietor. That couldn’t have been B.B. at the window though, unless she forgot her wig. It might be a bit livelier round here than I thought –’ Bar had been reluctant to leave the lights of London.

  ‘Here’s our chap, and the key,’ Fred interrupted, as a motorcycle spluttered to a stop by the kerb. ‘Let’s hope the water and gas are on. Good thinking, Mirry, to bring the kettle with us . . . ’

  ‘I wrote to remind them,’ she said. She saw herself as the practical partner, well, except for daydreaming in the Pictures.

  ‘Can’t lift you over the threshold, Mirry,’ he whispered, with a grin, ‘but it’s home sweet home for us at last.’ He squeezed her hand instead.

  ‘Homes Fit For Heroes’, the faded, peeling billboard at the beginning of the estate still proclaimed. There were heroes, Mirry thought, not far from here: ex-servicemen begging in the streets. Legless men wheeled in homemade carts to their pitches; some selling matches, some just holding out greasy-rimmed caps to invite pennies; men staring sightlessly, turning the handles of ancient, wheezy barrel organs. Cards dangled from strings round their neck: ‘Army Veteran’, ‘No Hope!’, ‘Homeless’, ‘Out of Work’, ‘Large Family’, ‘Help!’

  Sudden tears spilled from her eyes as she waited for the kettle to boil. She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes on her pinafore. She had remembered to bring that, unlike Bar, who blithely ignored the maxim that good clothes must be taken care of. Fred’s arms went round her from behind, his hands gently caressed the taut swelling of her front. She felt embarrassed, supposing someone came in the kitchen and saw them? The baby kicked in protest. She sighed. It must be a boy, she thought, and wearing football boots.

  ‘Pity you couldn’t fit a chair in your bag, Mirry – but at least you thought of the cups . . . ’ he joked anxiously. ‘You all right, dear?’

  ‘Just happy Fred, to be here at last,’ she assured him. ‘Where’s Bar?’

  ‘Looking out for the removal men, she says, but chatting to the agent,’ he told her, ruefully.

  The shrill whistle of the kettle, the steam dislodging the cap on the spout, made them both jump.

  ‘Not much room for a scalded cat in here,’ Fred rinsed out the jug in lieu of a teapot. Mirry produced tea leaves in a screw of paper, likewise sugar and a bent teaspoon, worn at one side where it had been held over the gas flame, to caramelise sugar to brown gravy. She carried on with all Mum’s little economies. Like Fred’s mother, her mum had been widowed in the war.

  ‘It’s a kitchenette, Fred,’ she touched the shiny taps over the deep sink with pride. ‘Hot and cold, we won’t know ourselves . . . ’

  ‘Only hot, when the fire’s going,’ Fred pointed out. ‘We should save up for a gas heater over the sink – the bathroom geyser will cost a fair bit to heat, I daresay, we’d best just use that for baths, once a week. You can rinse the little ‘un in the sink for a year or two, can’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘I do like the green and cream paint, in here, don’t you? You’ll need to fix me up an airer as soon as you can . . . Call that girl in for her tea,
do, Fred.’

  *

  Mirry sat outside in an easy chair, under the apple tree. She shivered a bit, because it was early September, after all, and the afternoons soon drew in. Fred had promised to light the fire when the men departed. ‘You stay out of the way, Mirry, there’s a good girl, you mustn’t overdo it – I’ll slip ‘em a bit extra to help put the beds up, and Bar can sort out the linen. She’s popped round the local shops for a few things – I feel like a good fry up, don’t you?’

  The very thought made Mirry feel queasy. ‘Only if you do the cooking, Fred . . . ’

  ‘ ’Course I will. You know me – a lump of lard, thick rashers, nice fat sausages – there, doesn’t that sound just the ticket?’ He brushed a leaf from her hair and kissed the top of her head. ‘Have a little snooze, I should . . . ’

  *

  The fire stubbornly resisted all efforts to set it alight, and the fall of soot meant that the departing family had not kept their promise to sweep the chimney, but the gas stove was obliging.

  Much to her surprise, Mirry was hungry, and Fred really was a dab hand with the frying pan. He’d learned to cook as a lad, when his mother was at work.

  They sat at the table in the recess of the bay window. Mirry didn’t protest at the lack of a cloth, because Bar had put out cork mats. She didn’t even ask her sister if she had washed the crockery when she removed it from the straw packing in the boxes.

  It was a pity Bar had to mention that the butcher had the tips of two fingers missing. ‘Mangled ‘em in the mincer, he said, when he saw me looking.’

  ‘Not today I hope, when he was making the sausage meat?’ Fred joked.

  It was a good-sized room, just right for every day. Fred had fixed the mirror over the mantelpiece, but Mirry longed to see her ornaments all in place. The big armchair by the fire was reserved for Fred, when he listened to his wireless: there were two smaller easy chairs for Mirry and Bar. They would have to buy a shade for the light. Woolworths was the place for a bargain. The linoleum struck cold to her feet. But their budget wouldn’t run to carpets yet awhile.

  The three-piece suite, Mirry’s pride and joy, was in the front room, together with the piano, inherited from her grandfather, who had paid for her to have music lessons as a child. This room would be strictly reserved for Sundays, or entertaining.

  They had saved hard and bought good-quality modern furniture from Arding and Hobbs at Clapham. Mirry often felt guilty that they had so much, when so many were on the dole. But what could she do about that?

  Their mahogany bed had an unyielding base. Mirry missed the comfort of the feather mattress she had shared with her sister before her marriage. Fred said they weren’t hygienic. He was very fastidious.

  Mirry hadn’t yet read her Daily Mirror. She was tired, but past sleep it seemed. Fred snored beside her, satisfied that the day had gone so well. She heard Bar turn over in bed in the room next door. Oh dear, the walls must be thin . . . She sat up cautiously. She must visit the bathroom shortly, what a relief it would be when the baby no longer sat on her bladder. At least there was no need for a chamber pot here, under the bed. She fumbled for her glasses on the bedside table, switched on her lamp. Five minutes reading – with Fred oblivious she could turn to the cartoon strips before the news.

  Some time during the night, Fred awoke. He unhooked her tortoiseshell glasses, removed them gently, turned off the light. He eased her down in the bed and cuddled her lovingly and carefully. He felt so proud. He was twenty-six-years old, he was a householder, and he was almost a father. He could provide for his family. His generation was ready to change the world . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRED BROUGHT BAR A CUP of tea first thing. ‘Well, I’m off, to join The Band of Hope – cheer-ho! You’ll look in on Mirry before you go, won’t you?’ He blew her a kiss at the door, winked. ‘Enjoy your day at Maison Woolies!’

  Bar grinned, sipping her tea. She appreciated her brother-in law’s sense of humour. She suspected that her sister sometimes did not. She could picture the small army of men in carefully brushed dark suits, bowler hats, polished shoes, chins jutting above their sternly starched detachable collars, which were changed daily, marching steadily uphill to the Jubilee clock, wheeling right to the station to catch the London train. They emerged from the new houses and strode shoulder to shoulder, as some of them must have done during the war, each with a rolled newspaper under his arm. They greeted each other by surname, passing a comment or two about the weather.

  Mirry was exercising her expectant mother’s privilege of a lie-in. Since the move Fred insisted she must only rise early on Mondays, when he lit the copper first thing, then there was a busy time ahead with the washboard and rubbing with hard green soap. Today was Thursday.

  ‘ ’Bye Mirry – don’t do too much!’ Bar peeked round the bedroom door. ‘It won’t be today, will it?’

  ‘I hope not, nearly two weeks to go, the nurse reckons.’

  ‘You look as if you’ll burst long before that.’ Bar said candidly. ‘Call in to the shop today, if you get time, we’ve got some lovely new china in . . . ’ Of course, Mirry had all the time in the world, being home all day, Bar thought, but without resentment.

  She was always in a rush, eschewing breakfast, but gulping a glass of milk, before she dashed out of the front door. Today, she just avoided colliding with the Galloping Major, out for his early morning constitutional with his dog. Why he had to cross the road and walk on their side, was a mystery to Bar. She wasn’t aware of just how attractive she looked; more grown up than her tender years.

  The soubriquet was, naturally, another of Fred’s. The Galloping Major was part of Mirry’s repertoire at the piano during their Sunday evening singsongs.

  ‘Hey, hey, clear the way, here comes the galloping major . . . ’ she hummed audaciously under her breath.

  Apart from raising his hat, revealing the shiny, scarred bald head which had intrigued her when she caught sight of him the day they moved in, Major Boam didn’t waste time, but indeed galloped off on long legs, pursuing his bull terrier, trailing his leash. The major was forced to relinquish his grip on this, when he made his gentlemanly gesture, for it was obvious he only had the use of his left hand. Bar had already deduced that his right hand, clad in a sinister tight-fitting black glove, was artificial, for it hung, motionless from his sleeve at his side. As usual, the major wore his military greatcoat over jodhpurs and high, laced boots. He was making for the Grove, the local park. ‘Bridger – stop!’ the major called in vain. Still, there was no traffic to worry about, Bar thought, as there was in the High Street. The milkman with his horse and cart had been along at dawn, likewise the newspaper boy on his bike.

  Bar was dying to meet the major’s daughter, to ask about ballroom dancing lessons. Mirry had actually spoken to her in passing, yesterday, at the shops.

  ‘What did she look like, Mirry – like the major?’ Bar had asked eagerly.

  ‘She has plenty of hair, if that’s what you mean, Bar. A pretty coppery colour – not cut, but in a bun. She seemed quite friendly.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘No idea, Bar – well older than me . . . ’

  Musing about the major and Miss Boam – she’d beaten Fred to it this time – La Bohème, as she called her to herself – Bar arrived at Woolworths, at the heart of the bustling High Street.

  She donned her smart overall, combed her hair, and then joined her fellow assistants in all the tasks that must be performed before the doors were opened to the public. She was happy to be behind the crockery counter. Everything 3d. and 6d. A jolly, curved teapot for the larger amount and its lid for the former. She thought Mr Woolworth was very clever to juggle the prices like that. Nearly every home she could think of had a Woolworth teaset with square plates patterned with poppies more orange than red. It was a best-selling line. Bar was glad she had insisted on leaving school as soon as she could, though Fred had said, seriously for once, she’d regret it, because she’d got brains. Mirry had sulked after that, because no one had said that to her: she’d left at fourteen, she said sharply, because mum needed her money coming in, each week, to help feed and clothe annoying little sisters . . . Anyway, Bar was enjoying her new life as a working girl.

  She was not too grown-up, however, not to glance longingly at the sweet counter when hunger pangs struck her at around ten o’clock. Miss Phillips, her senior, who appeared prim and unbending but was really very kind, slipped her a humbug and hissed: ‘Don’t crunch, don’t let the manager see – just suck slowly, Barbara.’