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  Anna sat back, knowing she was defeated, and her lips firmed to a mutinous line. She had heard it all a thousand times before. Oh, yes. That dreadful night …

  Anna had studied it at school and knew all about it. In March 1941, the city centre and all around the famous Hoe had been blasted to smithereens by two massive Luftwaffe raids. Plymouth’s business and shopping area and the Promenade Pier, countless houses, and many churches, cinemas, hotels, some schools and even hospitals had been destroyed, with well over three hundred civilians killed. Despite the gallant efforts of the bone-weary, grime-encrusted and bleary-eyed defence services, blazing infernos had raged through familiar public buildings, shops and private dwellings, lighting the sky like a beacon and filling the air with black, choking smoke.

  By dawn, swathes of the city had been flattened. Scores of buildings were burnt-out shells, charred skeletons with steel girders twisted by the heat. Walls tottered and collapsed, and fire hoses were still run out like snakes through the battered, debris-strewn streets. Anna had seen photographs in books, and wondered at the spirit, the courage and heroism of the men and women who had faced the appalling danger, trying to put out the fires, rescue the trapped and injured, all the while putting their own lives at risk. People, she supposed, like her father.

  And then, a month later, it had been Devonport’s turn, just as Lord Haw Haw had warned with evil relish. For three consecutive nights they came, wave after wave of raiders droning overhead, the incendiaries and flares falling like rain to burn and light the way for the bombers to dive down with their high explosives to blow away what little remained of the city centre and to destroy the Devonport Dockyards, navy personnel and whole streets of shops and civilian houses in the vicinity. The third night, when Devonport had taken the full brunt of the attack, that was the one. And what was more, at nearly five years old, Anna remembered it quite clearly.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I know,’ she said softly. ‘We’d gone down the shelter, remember? Horrible and damp and smelly, wasn’t it? And so cold. I’d taken my teddy, like I always did.’

  Her mother blinked at her. ‘You always say you remember, but are you sure you’re not just imagining it? You were very young.’

  Here we go again, Anna sighed to herself. Her mum always said the same thing. Perhaps it was the shock of what had happened both to them and to Vince that night that prevented her from accepting that her little daughter shared the same horrific memories. Anna didn’t like to say too much. Her mother, she had recognised long ago, was frail and Anna didn’t want to revive the terrible ordeal. But she could hear the sound of it all now, the whining siren that woke her before her mother did.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, Anna, Mr Hitler’s coming and he mustn’t find us in our beds, must he?’

  ‘Has Daddy gone to look after the ships he builds?’ she had answered, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Yes, he has. So come along, hurry up.’

  Anna jumped up eagerly from her bed. ‘I’m ready, Mummy, and so’s Teddy.’

  ‘Oh, good Mr Teddy! Come along, quickly now!’

  They ran down the stairs, grabbing their gas masks and the emergency bag as they called it, and then there was that strange feeling of being outside at night as they hurried down the garden to the shelter. Anna glanced up in fascination. Brilliant shafts of gleaming silver sliced through the darkness as the searchlights scanned the indigo sky, and the shadow of a barrage balloon floated in mid-air like a great whale.

  A moment later they plunged into the pitch-dark stench of the shelter, and then there was a tiny click as Freda turned on the torch. The rasp of a match was next as she lit the oil lamp.

  ‘There,’ she smiled reassuringly. ‘Quite cosy now. I’ll turn the torch off. Mustn’t waste the batteries.’

  Anna climbed unbidden into the little bunk bed. She knew the routine. It hadn’t just been the recent devastating raids. There had been plenty of smaller ones before. She cuddled up with Teddy, her coat over her nightie, and Mummy piled the blankets on top of her, but she still shivered with cold.

  ‘Try and get some sleep now,’ Mummy soothed.

  She obeyed. She only wanted to please Mummy, and so she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep. But she wasn’t. How could she sleep in the tense, expectant silence?

  Which came first, she wasn’t sure, the distant hum whining its way towards them, or the staccato rattle of the ack-ack guns pounding skywards. The thrum of aircraft engines overhead grew stronger, deep-throated, followed by the dull thud of incendiaries landing all around. Later, perhaps an hour or so when the fires had had time to catch and blaze and turn the night to day, came the shriek of the bombers as they dived down to release their cargoes of death on their illuminated targets. Missiles fell to earth with the characteristic whistle Anna had learnt to recognise, shells burst like a crack of lightning, explosions roared and echoed, and the ground shook, ever nearer.

  On and on it went, five or six hours. Anna peeped out from beneath the blankets to seek reassurance from the calm figure of her mother, but all she saw were the whites of Mummy’s eyes flashing in terror at another screaming blast. And shortly before it all ended, a great, thundering crash reverberated about them, and the ground suddenly shook with such unimaginable force that Anna was thrown into the corner of her bunk and her mummy, crouching fearfully by her side, was flung against the back wall.

  ‘Yes, I do remember,’ Anna said now, her voice tiny as the memories flooded back. ‘That blast, it was so loud we could hardly hear afterwards for hours. You weren’t sure you could hear the all-clear, and we crept out very slowly just in case. It was still dark, but the sky was orange. And I was confused because our house and half the street just weren’t there anymore. And it was all so quiet and unreal. I thought I was dreaming.’

  She paused as her mother turned to her with tear-filled eyes. ‘But we weren’t, were we?’

  No, they weren’t. It was more than thirteen years ago, but just as vivid in their minds for all that. Plymouth had recovered, a phoenix from the ashes, though without many of its sons and daughters. But on that night when their home had been obliterated from the face of the earth, Vince Millington’s head had been caved in by a falling wall as he tried to save another family, his brain damaged in some cruel, festering way so that his life could never be the same again.

  ‘Mum?’ Anna was jolted from her thoughts as her mother moved in the bed and drew a wincing breath through her teeth. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked firmly. ‘Not just a headache, is it?’

  Her mother melted against the pillows. ‘No,’ she admitted in a whisper. ‘I suppose you’re old enough to know. It’s a miscarriage.’

  ‘A miscarriage! But … but shouldn’t you have the doctor?’

  ‘No. There’s no point. There’s nothing they can do. I’ve had the doctor before—’

  ‘Before?’

  Anna’s eyes stretched wide, but her mother reached out and took her hand. ‘Sit down, dear, and listen. I’ve had several before, so I know all about it.’ She hesitated, meeting Anna’s shocked gaze. ‘Just don’t tell your father. He didn’t know I’d fallen pregnant again. He gets so upset, you see. We’ve wanted another child for so long. I’m sure it’d have made Dad better. He so wanted a son. Always.’

  Anna’s heart darkened in dismay. A son. Her father wanted a son. And what was she? A girl. Not that her dad had ever shown her any particular dislike. In fact, when something flipped him over the edge and brought that maddened, damaged side of his brain to the fore, it was always she who calmed him down – as a child by her mere presence, and as she had grown older, by standing up to him. Like the other night.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell your father?’ her mum repeated.

  As she stretched up her head to look at her daughter, the bruises on her throat were clearly visible again. In a week, they would have faded. Until the next time. And who could say where it would all end?

  Chapter Two

  Anna knocked loudly on
the front door of Ethel’s house. You had to if you wanted to be heard above the din that, as usual, was coming from inside. Oh, come on, someone open the door! It was cold, the first frost of the year, and as Anna hunched her shoulders inside her school gaberdine coat, she noted the peeling paint and the cracked windowpane. Her father wouldn’t have stood for that! And yet for all the orderliness of her own home, Anna would willingly have swapped it for the happy chaos that reigned at Number Sixteen.

  At long last, the door squeaked open and Ethel’s mother stood there in her old slippers. She was wrapped in a stained crossover pinny, curlers visible beneath a bright-orange scarf, and a cigarette, as always, dripping from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘’Ello, Anna dear! Come on in. Cas’n ’ave you dithering on the doorstep this snipey weather. Ethel’s just in the bog. She won’t be long.’

  How does she do that, Anna mused for the thousandth time as she was ushered into the kitchen, smile and talk without the cigarette – or fag as she called it – dropping from between her lips? On countless occasions, Anna had seen Mrs Shallaford drink and even eat with the little white stick in place. Perhaps it was glued there? But despite the rancid smell of nicotine that seeped from her, Anna had always been very fond of the slovenly woman.

  ‘Want a cuppa?’ she asked, leaning over the table.

  ‘Oi, Mu … um!’ young Billy moaned as he and his little brother and sister slurped at bowls of lumpy porridge. ‘Your blooming ash ’as fallen in me breakfast.’

  ‘Yere, don’t you bloody well swear at your mother!’ Fred Shallaford staggered, bleary-eyed, into the room. ‘’Ow do, Anna, young maid?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ Anna replied, and watched as he lumbered into the scullery, leaving the door ajar. Dressed in just a greying singlet and baggy trousers with his braces dangling around his ample hips, he proceeded to lather his chin at the sink.

  ‘You sure you won’t ’ave that cuppa?’ Mrs Shallaford repeated.

  ‘No, thanks. There isn’t really time,’ Anna answered, glad of the excuse since the cleanliness of the Shallaford crockery was always somewhat suspect.

  ‘An’ you should be down the market an’ all, Billy!’ his mother declared, whisking away the bowl from which the boy was carefully scraping the ash. ‘Mr Riddler’ll give the job to someone else, an’ us could do with that few bob.’

  Anna saw the boy roll his eyes and then scoot out of the door, on his way grabbing his torn jacket – a hand-me-down from his elder brother, Davy, who was nowhere to be seen. But, like his father, Davy worked for the railway so Anna supposed he could be on his shift or asleep upstairs. That just left eight-year-old Sammy, and little Primrose who was five, staring up at their visitor from dirty little faces.

  ‘’Ow’s Freda?’ Mabel Shallaford asked casually as she flicked more cigarette ash onto the floor. ‘I ’asn’t seen ’er in a while.’

  Anna felt her heart thud. ‘Oh, Mum’s fine, thank you,’ she lied, and took the opportunity to glance at her watch again. They were going to be late. And just as Billy needed to keep his Saturday job as barrow boy, Anna needed to keep hers in the lingerie department at Dingles. Besides, she enjoyed it, especially handling the more luxurious items of underwear which made her dream of a romantic, happy, uncomplicated life where money was never a problem.

  ‘Oh, there you are!’ she snapped as Ethel finally came in from the backyard and went to wash her hands in her father’s shaving water. ‘We’ll never get there on time!’

  ‘’Ave to take the bus then, won’t us?’ Ethel shrugged, cramming the remains of Billy’s slice of bread and dripping into her mouth. ‘Bye, Mum, bye, Dad.’

  ‘Bye, love. Bye, Anna.’

  ‘Cheerio!’

  Outside, their breath wreathed about them in a white halo as they hurried down the street.

  ‘Oh, do come on!’ Anna grumbled when she realised Ethel had suddenly stopped behind her. ‘We’ll miss the bus as well!’

  ‘I’ve got summat in my shoe,’ Ethel mumbled and then, straightening up, she ran to catch Anna up. ‘’Oo got out o’ bed wrong side this morning, eh? Is ort up?’

  ‘No, nothing’s wrong. Just don’t want to lose my job. Oh, there’s a bus coming!’ she cried as they turned the corner. ‘We’ll have to run!’

  They did. As luck would have it, there was quite a queue, and as the passengers gradually clambered on, it gave the girls time to get there. They had to stand between the long sideways seats by the platform, holding precariously on to the grab rail above their heads. The journey was uncomfortable with no one getting off, and all new passengers had to go upstairs. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to, Anna thought with relief. She hated it upstairs as it was always so smoky, just like at Ethel’s house, and it made your clothes smell. But at last the bus jerked to a halt at their stop, and they were among the first to step down onto the platform and across onto the kerb.

  ‘Got a face like ninepence, you ’as, this morning,’ Ethel observed as they walked across the wide, modern expanses of the new city centre. There had been nothing for it after the war but to bulldoze the entire site and start again. Dingles, the fashionable department store where Anna worked on Saturdays and Ethel worked all week, had been one of the first shops to open, but now, in 1954, the rebuilding was pretty well completed.

  Anna said nothing, but Ethel wasn’t going to leave it alone. ‘Come on, Anna. Us’ve known each other since we was tackers, ever since us met on that there evacuation train to Tavistock, an’ my mum took you under ’er wing cuz you was all on your lonesome an’ you was barely five, same as me.’

  The memory brought a faint smile to Anna’s lips. ‘Yes. I’ll always be grateful to your mum for that.’ But then she added defensively, ‘It wasn’t my mum’s fault she couldn’t come. She had to stay in Plymouth because of Dad. He was in hospital for months and she wouldn’t leave him. And when he came home, she had to look after him.’

  ‘Yes, I knows that. An’ I also knows when summat’s wrong. An’ you was the same last weekend an’ all. So come on. I’s your best friend an’ you knows what they say. A trouble shared an’ all that.’

  Anna sighed. Ethel was so different from her in many ways, happily leaving school at fifteen to go out to work, with no ambition but to carry on her life as the rest of her family always had, living from hand to mouth. But there was a directness about her, no beating about the bush or bottling things up, that Anna envied.

  ‘All right,’ she gave in, lowering her voice. ‘Mum had a miscarriage. About ten days ago.’

  Ethel stopped and turned to her, mouth fallen open. ‘Bleeding ’ell,’ Ethel murmured. ‘Oh, I’s sorry, Anna.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We can’t just stand here,’ Anna pressed her awkwardly. ‘We’ll get the sack for being late.’

  ‘Yes, you’m right. But I really is sorry. But I suppose your mum’s a bit long in the tooth for ’aving a babby.’

  ‘They’ve been trying for years apparently, but every time Mum gets pregnant, she loses it.’ Anna felt herself flush with heat, despite the frosty morning. But Ethel, as usual, was right. She did feel better for having confessed to her friend. ‘You promise you won’t breathe a word to a living soul?’ she couldn’t help adding, though.

  ‘Course not. Not fair, life, sometimes, innit? There’s your mum desprit for another babby, an’ my mum couldn’t stop ’aving them. Mind you, there’s only five of us, an’ my mum were one o’ thirteen. So Dad must’ve been doing summat right wi’ they rubber thingies!’ She nudged Anna in the ribs and grinned before finishing, ‘Mum says, though, she cas’n wait for the change cuz then she won’t ’ave to worry so much!’

  As they went in through the staff entrance, Anna couldn’t help but smile. Oh, Ethel was so good for her! And she blessed the day, thirteen years before, when she had found herself all alone and frightened on the crowded train, gas mask and label around her neck and clutching a paper bag that contained nothing but a spare pair of knickers – since they had lost ever
ything when their house had been blown to kingdom come. And then the bustling woman with the loud voice and the cigarette in her mouth had taken charge of her, and after that, everything had been all right and Anna had felt safe again.

  ‘Shall I price up those new suspender belts?’ Anna asked Mrs Woodhead, her boss.

  ‘Please, dear. I’m just popping down to the storeroom for more of those lacy camiknickers.’

  Anna nodded, and began writing out the labels in her neatest hand. It was gratifying that Mrs Woodhead would leave her in charge of the department, but they had been working together on Saturdays for three years now. Should she tell the kindly older woman about her distressing situation at home, Anna often wondered? Discussing it with someone more mature might help, but it would seem like a betrayal, wouldn’t it? And so she only ever confided in Ethel. But at times it was unbearable, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was only just eighteen, for heaven’s sake, but sometimes she felt more like eighty.

  For the second time, she made a mistake on a label and had to tear it up. Oh, what was the matter with her? She supposed she was dwelling on her mother and the miscarriages. And the fact that her father’s temper, or rather the depression that led to it, was getting worse week by week. Perhaps she should go and talk to the doctor about it if her mother wouldn’t. Find out if there was anything to be done. Yes, she would go one evening next week, though persuading her parents to take up whatever help might be available was another matter.

  The thought, though, cheered her up somewhat. Her lunch hour didn’t coincide with Ethel’s, so they couldn’t talk until they were walking home from work through the darkened streets.

  ‘You coming to the flicks tonight? Davy’s friend, Bert, you knows the one, ’e said ’e’d meet us outside if I wants.’