War Orphans Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Lizzie Lane

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  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

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  “If at all possible, send or take your household animals into the country in advance of an emergency. If you cannot place them in the care of neighbours, it really is kindest to have them destroyed.”

  Joanna Ryan’s father has gone off to war, leaving her in the care of her step-mother, a woman more concerned with having a good time than being any sort of parent to her.

  But then she finds a puppy, left for dead, and Joanna becomes determined to save him, sharing her meagre rations with him. But, in a time of war, pets are only seen as an unnecessary burden and she is forced to hide her new friend, Harry, from her step-mother and the authorities. With bombs falling over Bristol and with the prospect of evacuation on the horizon can they stay together and keep each other safe?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lizzie Lane was born and brought up in one of the toughest areas of Bristol, the eldest of three siblings who were all born before her parents got round to marrying. Her mother, who had endured both the depression and war years, was a natural born story teller, and it’s from her telling of actual experiences of the tumultuous first half of the twentieth century, that Lizzie gets her inspiration.

  Lizzie put both cities and rat race behind her in 2012 and moved onto a boat, preferring to lead the simple life where she can write and watch the sun go down without interruption.

  Also by Lizzie Lane:

  Wartime Brides

  Coronation Wives

  A Christmas Wish

  A Soldier’s Valentine (digital short)

  A Wartime Wife

  A Wartime Family

  Home for Christmas

  Wartime Sweethearts

  War Baby

  Home Sweet Home

  To my friends Sally and Mike, for all the kindness and fun times we had together, and to Sharon, Chris and Mary for being there for me in a time of trouble.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  At the outbreak of war between Britain and Germany, the government advised that parents’ evacuated their children from the nation’s cities to the safety of the countryside.

  Less is known about another government directive advising that all household pets are destroyed. Their advice was based on the likelihood of an enemy blockade of food supplies and the severity of rationing. There would be no food to spare for pets.

  The government surmised that, following intensive bombing, packs of maddened dogs would form, attacking and eating anything they could.

  The majority of pets were put down humanely, but a lot were abandoned, knocked over the head with a hammer, drowned or left tied up in sacks to slowly starve and suffocate to death.

  It is estimated that 300,000 were destroyed in the first ten days following the outbreak of war. This does not take into account those less than humanely killed or abandoned to die. It is estimated that 750,000 dogs and cats were put down by the end of the war.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Five hundred and one, five hundred and two, five hundred and three . . .’

  Joanna’s whispered words hissed softly into the darkness, her lips barely moving. Even at the tender age of nine, she knew from experience that if she opened her mouth too much she would breathe in the dusty air and swallow the gritty coal dust.

  The coalhouse was not underground as it was in older houses, but beneath the stairs and adjacent to the kitchen. Being locked in here was the ultimate punishment, the one she hated the most. The sound of the normal life of the house continued on the other side of the door.

  It was light and warm on the other side of the door. In the coalhouse it was dirty, dark and she was very alone.

  Elspeth, her stepmother, had told her it was all her own fault, that she was bad and nothing but a nuisance. ‘I’ve got things to do without bothering with a cocky little kid like you.’

  Joanna couldn’t recall exactly what she’d done wrong. Elspeth always turned nasty after she’d put on her makeup, curled her hair into the latest style and put on her best costume – a tightly fitted jacket and skirt. It was a mixture of red and green, like paint splashes, though ordered not random. Last on was the strong-smelling perfume that Elspeth favoured, but which made Joanna retch. Perhaps that was the reason for her punishment, retching and wrinkling her nose. Sometimes she thought she heard a man’s voice beyond the door, though it didn’t sound like her father’s.

  She’d been locked in the coalhouse under the stairs for so long she’d counted to one thousand again and again, her eyes tightly closed, the smell of coal in her nostrils and dust clinging to her throat.

  Keeping her eyes closed helped her maintain an illusion of normality, that the darkness was of her own choosing and not because her stepmother had yet again found an excuse to lock her up.

  Counting helped her cope. Counting and closing her eyes had become a habit, even in school.

  Her teacher had noticed she did it, but merely commented that if it helped her count then it was a good thing. But her teacher didn’t know about her stepmother. Neither did her father.

  Elspeth – she couldn’t bear to call her ‘mother’, and Elspeth couldn’t bear being called that except when Joanna’s father was home – twisted her stepdaughter’s arm up behind her back and made her swear never to tell that she was sometimes locked in the coalhouse. Joanna had cried. She used to cry a lot until Elspeth began throwing her under the stairs even for doing that.

  Now she only cried at night, and even then silently so neither her stepmother nor her father would hear.

  Sometimes she fancied a soft hand stroked her hair before she fell asleep, a gentle voice telling her not to cry, that she was loved and everything would be all right.

  Her mother had died three years before. Her happy face became pale and drawn, and she began spending more and more time in bed. Joanna had no idea of what her mother’s illness was called, only that it took her away from her when she was young and still in need of her.

  Lonely, and thinking his daughter needed a mother, her father had met and married Elspeth. She’d presented a caring picture, even bringing Joanna sweets and ribbons, cooing and fussing over her as though she was the most precious thing in the world.

  But once she became Mrs Ryan her behaviour changed.

  Joanna’s father knew nothing of how his new wife treated his daughter,
or perhaps he couldn’t face the fact, preferring to bury himself in work than see how difficult life had become for his only child.

  He’d worked long hours as a lathe turner at the aircraft factory in the weeks before war was declared; they’d known even then there was going to be a war. When he came home from work Elspeth went out of her way to behave differently.

  She made a point of making herself look good even on those days when she didn’t lock Joanna in the coalhouse and she went off to meet one of her fancy men. There was nothing like making a bit of extra money and, anyway, old habits died hard.

  Housework and looking after Joanna took second place to being dressed and made up as glamorously as possible even if she was only going shopping, and certainly in time for Tom Ryan coming home from work.

  Sometimes she made Joanna wash and change too. At other times she didn’t bother, and if Tom did frown and look concerned she put the blame on Joanna’s shoulders, blaming the girl herself for being dirty and ragged.

  ‘Out playing with the boys again! Mark my words, young lady, boys will only get you in trouble!’

  Then she’d smile her best smile and laugh as though they were the happiest family in the world.

  Joanna had to laugh too. There’d be hell to play if she didn’t.

  The darkness was total. Her stomach began to rumble which was not surprising seeing as she’d only had a piece of bread and dripping for breakfast. Elspeth had been too busy to prepare lunch. It was Saturday and she’d had a hairdressing appointment.

  There were few women in their street able to spend money on hair appointments but Elspeth was a regular at the tiny shop that smelled nasty and was very hot.

  Elspeth’s hair never looked that different when she got back from a weekday appointment. The only time it did look different was when she went to the hairdressers on Saturdays.

  On the one occasion Joanna had been brave enough to ask why that was, Elspeth had slapped her face and told her not to ask questions. She’d also demanded that she say she was sorry for criticising her hair.

  ‘After all the trouble I take to make it look nice! Just like this house. It was never like this when I first came here. Right rubbish tip it was.’

  Joanna thought it felt like home with its comfy sofa and mismatched chairs, a standard lamp throwing its yellowish glow over her father’s chair and the Bakelite radio that sat on a small table with bamboo legs.

  Elspeth liked ornaments. Lots of ornaments, mostly of ladies in crinoline dresses wearing poke bonnets, and gentlemen in tight trousers with curly moustaches. She also liked brass plaques and fire irons. It was Joanna’s job to clean these, a job she hated. Her father had called her a little trouper when he’d come home early one Saturday and caught her doing it. She’d smiled and thrown her arms around him, only barely holding back the tears. She’d so wanted to tell him she hated cleaning the brass but that Elspeth would punish her if she didn’t.

  ‘Seven hundred and seventy-seven . . . seven hundred and seventy-eight . . .’

  On hearing the sudden rattling of the key in the lock, she stopped counting, blinking as bright light fell from the narrow gap onto her face.

  The gap widened. Her stepmother, hair bleached the colour of light honey, appeared in the doorway.

  Unlike Joanna who had dark hair, her stepmother’s dyed hair replicated that of Joanna’s mother. Even her features were similar to those of her mother. Joanna knew this from the black-and-white wedding photograph she’d found in the back of the sideboard drawer one day. The one thing Elspeth couldn’t change was the hard look in her eyes. She also wore too much makeup, and had yellow fingertips thanks to incessant smoking.

  A cigarette dangled from the corner of her bright-red lips.

  ‘Right,’ she said, reaching in and dragging Joanna out. ‘I’m out of spuds. Get down to Gingell’s and get me five pounds. Here’s the money . . .’

  Joanna blinked. The light was still too strong for her eyes but she dared not complain. She was just so glad to be out.

  ‘You can keep the change, but only if it’s a few pennies. And spend it right away. I don’t want your dad thinking that I’m a wicked stepmother – like that Goldilocks . . .’

  ‘Snow White,’ Joanna corrected her. ‘It was Snow White.’

  Seeing anger flare in her stepmother’s eyes, Joanna knew it was time to make a quick exit. She grabbed the brown leather shopping bag set aside for vegetables. Elspeth rarely shopped for vegetables. That job she either left to Joanna or bought from Charlie Long, who came round on a cart pulled by a brown-and-white horse named Polly. Joanna was fascinated by the dependable old horse who waited patiently while Charlie served the street with vegetables. Polly had even let her stroke her muzzle and Joanna had been fascinated by its softness.

  ‘Like velvet,’ she’d said to Charlie, smiling up at him.

  Charlie had said the horse didn’t let everyone touch him like that. ‘It means she likes ye. Animals know who they like and who they don’t like.’

  Joanna had felt so privileged she thought her heart would burst.

  Her stepmother was always willing to puncture any sign of happiness.

  ‘Leave the animal alone. You might get fleas,’ she’d snapped, a comment which brought a surly look from Charlie.

  ‘My horse ain’t got fleas, missus, and don’t you forget it. Say it again and ye won’t be buying any of my potatoes, I can assure ye of that.’

  Charlie always said ye, thou or thee. Joanna didn’t know why and didn’t care to ask. She liked the way he spoke.

  It wasn’t Charlie’s day to come clopping up the street with Polly so the potatoes had to be bought from the shop at the bottom of the hill. Joanna didn’t mind running downhill to the shop, her hair flying behind her and arms outstretched as though she could fly. Running downhill felt like freedom. She wished there was some kind of magic that would turn her arms into wings and she could fly away.

  There were a few people in the vegetable shop when she got there. One or two looked at her with pity in their eyes. She was careful to look away. Fifteen minutes later and she was off back home, shoulder sagging one side as she lugged the heavy bag, a lollipop stick hanging out of her mouth. Slogging back up the hill with a heavy bag of potatoes was slower and the prospect of arriving home far from liberating.

  Halfway up The Vale, as their street was named, she looked back down the hill, half expecting to hear the rattly roar of her father’s motorbike coming up behind her. He’d been called up to fight in the war just a week ago, yet she still expected to see him riding up that hill between the red-brick council houses.

  Ever since she was a little girl she’d always ran halfway down the hill to meet him, riding pillion for the remainder of his journey home.

  Her mind went back to the time when he’d brought the kitten home for her. She could still see him now, wearing a leather flying helmet, gauntlets and goggles even when the weather was warm. His smile was always there and his voice always rang with the same invitation. ‘Sweetheart! Hop on!’

  On the day when he’d brought her the most wonderful gift of all, he couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he’d said, ‘you hold something for me, and I’ll heave those potatoes up here between me and the tank.’

  Joanna stopped, making the lollipop stick twist and turn as she remembered what he wanted her to hold. She’d handed him the potatoes, which he bundled up in front of him, the weight resting on the tank.

  ‘Here,’ he’d said, reaching inside his jacket, his smile undiminished. ‘Her name’s Lottie.’

  Joanna had gasped. ‘It’s a cat!’

  ‘A kitten,’ he’d corrected. ‘Just a little snippet of a thing.’

  The kitten had purred as she wrapped her arms around her.

  ‘It’ll be your job to look after Lottie from now on,’ her father had said.

  ‘Where did she come from?’

  ‘Well, she belonged to Fred, the night watchman at the facto
ry. His cat had kittens and then Old Fred died, so Lottie here has nowhere to go.’

  Joanna had been dumbstruck.

  ‘Well, can you look after her or can’t you?’

  Too surprised for words, she’d nodded her head vigorously.

  ‘Come on then. Get on the pillion.’

  Tucking the purring cat inside her cardigan, Joanna had scrambled on behind her father, wrapping her arms around him tightly enough not to fall off while at the same time being careful not to squash the cat.

  On hearing the sound of the approaching motorcycle, Elspeth had appeared at the front door, done up to the nines, ready to play the ideal housewife. As usual her lips were painted bright red, her dress was clean and glossy curls bounced around her shoulders.

  She’d waved a manicured hand, the fingernails the same bright red as her lips. ‘Darling!’

  Joanna always winced at the sight of those bright red nails and that waving hand, bringing to mind as it did the slaps she’d often received.

  Her father had steadied the bike so Joanna could get off first.

  ‘Look what my dad’s brought me,’ had said Joanna, unable to control her happiness.

  ‘A cat. That’s nice for you. Make sure you look after it.’ She’d thrown a disapproving look at Joanna’s father. ‘Tom. You shouldn’t have.’

  Joanna interrupted what could have been the beginning of a quarrel. ‘It’s a girl. Her name’s Lottie.’

  From then on the cat had shared her bed and Joanna had looked after her, feeding her and bringing her in from outside when Elspeth had shut her out at night, even when it was bitterly cold. Once she was sure her father and Elspeth were gone to bed, Joanna would sneak back downstairs and let Lottie in. Together they had fallen asleep, Joanna’s arm around her very best friend.

  One week ago, her father stood there on the doorstep, wearing his brand-new uniform and looking in two minds to go.

  ‘It’ll be just you and me, darling,’ her stepmother had said just before her father had left.

  Joanna had trembled at the thought of it, though she didn’t dare say a word. Her stepmother had made a show of being kind to her that day. Her father was not to know that things were not always like that – not that there were ever any bruises to show, bruises would have to be explained. (Joanna feared that would change once her father was gone.) – instead, she endured cutting words and cruel treatment. But now, there would be no shoulder for Joanna to cry on, no kind voice to soothe the loss of her mother.