The Orphan Sisters: An Utterly Heartbreaking and Gripping World War 2 Historical Novel

by Shirley Dickson

  The voice was Dorothy’s. As she drifted off to sleep, Etty’s disappointment knew no bounds.

  18

  August 1942

  ‘It’s baby blues,’ Dorothy told Etty. ‘I’ve heard it’s happened to many a woman.’

  Five weeks had passed since the baby’s birth. After a particularly hot spell, the weather was cooler today and all Etty wanted was to be out of the four walls of her flat and breathing fresh air.

  ‘And worrying about the baby during Jerry raids won’t help,’ Dorothy continued.

  Neither of them mentioned the raid the other night when planes attacked a number of places in County Durham. ‘And what with feeding the baby during the night and no sleep when a raid is on… It’s wearing on the nerves.’

  It was Dorothy’s day off work, and the sisters had strolled up to Redhead Park, and now walked down Whale Street, heading for home.

  ‘Aunty Dorothy’, as Etty’s sister delighted in calling herself, pushed the pram, where the sleeping baby was covered by a light cotton sheet, shielded from the sun by a fringed canopy.

  Etty dreaded going home and blamed her melancholic state on the fact that she was in the house so much alone. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt at peace, and hadn’t been wholly truthful with Dorothy about how she suffered. It felt as if her brain was smothered by a blanket and dark thoughts teemed through her mind while, at other times, she couldn’t think at all. But mostly she felt withdrawn, with no interest in anything, or anybody at all – even, God help her, her daughter. If Dorothy knew the extent of her malady, she’d insist Etty see a doctor. But Etty’s fear was that she’d be certified as insane and locked up in an institution. For what Nellie had said preyed on her mind – that folks raised in an asylum didn’t have proper feelings.

  ‘Come to my place for a spot of lunch.’ Dorothy spoke in an over-bright tone, watching Etty closely. ‘I’m itching to show you the christening robe. It’s finished, by the way, except for the name.’

  The robe, made from parachute silk, was a gift from Dorothy for her niece’s christening.

  ‘What name?’ Etty asked.

  ‘It’s an idea I’ve had.’ Dorothy’s face became animated. ‘The robe can develop into a family heirloom with our children’s names embroidered on it. Let’s hope Norma…’ she pulled a quizzical face and Etty knew she longed to ask about the baby’s name change, ‘… Elizabeth Milne will be the first of many.’

  Etty liked the idea; it gave the future a sense of the stability she needed.

  They continued to wander down the street, passing Mrs Henderson on hands and knees as she scrubbed at her front step. Looking up and, seeing who passed, she pursed her lips. She wore a pretty apron, and her fair hair, wound around steel curlers, was covered by a turban-style headscarf. Etty shook her head in disbelief. Folk were being blown to smithereens and here was this lass worrying about the cleanliness of her step – the world had, indeed, gone mad.

  Mrs Henderson gave Etty a black look.

  ‘It’s because you’re not churched,’ Dorothy muttered under her breath so Mrs Henderson couldn’t hear.

  ‘I’m not what?’

  ‘Churched. It’s a blessing by the local vicar, to thank God for the baby’s safe delivery.’ She shrugged, noncommittally. ‘Supposedly, the blessing washes the sin of childbirth away. Unchurched people aren’t allowed to enter anyone’s home as it’s considered bad luck for the household.’

  ‘Superstitious nonsense,’ Etty retorted. ‘Some folks still live in the dark ages.’

  At one time, Etty wouldn’t have been able to stop herself making some cutting remark to Mrs Henderson, and Dorothy would have hissed, ‘for goodness’ sake, behave yourself, Etty.’

  But in her present state, Etty hurried by without making eye contact, much to Dorothy’s apparent amazement.

  Coming to a halt and producing a key from her shoulder bag, Dorothy opened her front door and, turning backwards, bumped the pram over the threshold.

  Etty followed her in. Standing in the gloomy passageway, an ominous dread gripped her. Involuntarily, she shivered. What if Mrs Henderson was right and she did tempt fate by entering Dorothy’s home? A chill ran up Etty’s spine.

  Unable to tolerate the silence a moment longer, she spoke in the hope of bringing some normality back into the situation.

  ‘Buck up, Dorothy. Leave the canopy where it is for now.’

  ‘Won’t Norma be frightened if she wakes up in the dark?’

  ‘She’s used to it… what with the blackout curtains.’

  ‘What a treasure she is.’

  The phrase, her mother-in-law’s favourite, made Etty cringe. Nellie ruined the bairn. If Norma couldn’t sleep, she had only to whimper and her granny would make a beeline for her cot. Lifting her out she would croon, ‘Come to Granny, me little treasure.’

  Used to being picked up, Norma would now only go to sleep if she was rocked in someone’s arms – and those arms were generally Granny Milne’s. Etty knew she should confront Nellie but overwhelmed by lethargy, she couldn’t summon the energy.

  ‘I don’t like to interfere…’ Stood in the kitchen, Dorothy chewed her bottom lip. ‘But we… that is, Laurie and I… wondered why you’ve changed Norma’s name from Elizabeth.’

  By happy chance a fortnight ago Laurie’s destroyer had sailed into the River Tyne for repairs. Given two days leave, Laurie was delighted to spend time with his wife and to be acquainted with his new niece. His eyes lit up when he was introduced to Norma, but crinkled worriedly when he glimpsed his sister-in-law.

  ‘She is Elizabeth. Norma Elizabeth,’ Etty retorted.

  ‘I thought Elizabeth was your first choice.’ When Etty didn’t answer, Dorothy continued. ‘I’m concerned it’s got something to do with Mrs Milne.’

  ‘Trevor did mention his Mam favoured the name.’

  Dorothy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really.’

  Hearing the uncharacteristic disapproval in her sister’s tone, Etty stiffened.

  ‘Trevor too,’ she said, defensively.

  She didn’t add that, under the circumstances, she was pleased he’d had any opinion at all and that the name change had nothing to do with his mother. As for Etty, she felt frozen and couldn’t care less what the baby was called.

  Dorothy, crimson-faced, exploded. ‘Etty Milne, what’s wrong with you? You’ve lost your spunk. Laurie thinks so too. He made me promise not to say anything but somebody has to.’ She gasped an intake of air. ‘And while I’m on the subject, Norma’s spending far too much time with Mrs Milne and it’s not good for her… or you, for that matter.’

  The idea that the Calvert’s had discussed her affairs shocked and humiliated Etty.

  Rarely did the sisters argue. By the distressed look on Dorothy’s face, it had cost her dearly to say what she had.

  ‘I know it’s easy for me to say––’

  ‘Yes, it is easy for you to talk,’ Etty jumped in and, like a dam ready to burst, words gushed from her mouth. It was easy for Dorothy, she ranted, who didn’t have a baby to care for and, until she did, she shouldn’t criticize. Dorothy should thank her lucky stars she didn’t have a battle-axe mother-in-law to contend with. Then, there was Trevor who, unlike Laurie, was no help at all and who Etty never saw because he scarpered over the road to the Newmans whenever he got the chance. When he did come home, he expected tea on the table and the house spotlessly clean.

  Etty drew a much-needed long breath before going on. ‘Just look at the state of me… with all the weight I’ve put on I look positively matronly. And with night feeds and early rising, I’m tired to the bone. Worse – much worse than anything else,’ she met Dorothy’s gaze, ‘is the fact that I have no maternal feelings about Norma and I need help.’ After another quivering breath, Etty continued in a small voice, ‘What if this is what being brought up at Blakey’s done to me? What if I never get better?’

  The tirade finished, Etty dreaded what Dorothy might think.

&nbs
p; Amazingly, her sister’s face only registered relief. ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘I’m glad that’s off your chest. First of all, this has nothing to do with Blakely, please believe me. We have left that place behind us. And you will get better… you must give yourself time. You’re right,’ she looked shamefaced, ‘I don’t know any of these things and it’s a wonder how you cope with it all.’

  ‘I’m a useless mam,’ Etty confessed.

  ‘Never say that. You’re a new mother, that’s all.’

  ‘What kind of mam am I when I let Nellie whisk the bairn upstairs at every opportunity?’

  ‘The emotionally exhausted kind, that won’t ask for anyone’s help. You’ve always been the same,’ Dorothy chided, as if Etty were a child again. ‘There’s nothing wrong in admitting defeat once in a while, it’s a sign of maturity. Laurie taught me that.’ At the thought of her husband, Dorothy smiled tenderly.

  Now that her outburst was over, it was as though Etty was purged. She’d been bottling things up, she realised, and it was good to share her fears with Dorothy. She thought affectionately of Laurie, who, on his precious days off, had found time to be concerned about her. How fortunate she was to have relatives she could depend on. In a flash of insight, she realised she wasn’t mad at Dorothy or, indeed Trevor – but herself. No matter what Dorothy said, the way she gave into Nellie over the bairn was feeble. Etty despised weakness and vowed she’d never let it happen again. From now on, she would make getting stronger her first priority.

  She told some of this to Dorothy.

  ‘You see…’ her sister said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. ‘Already, you’re making getting well a contest. You need to relax, let it happen.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Etty said, gravely.

  She was conscious of her face looking solemn and, for some reason she saw the funny side. She met Dorothy’s eyes and saw a spark of humour in them and the atmosphere, all of a sudden, was charged with fun. For no apparent reason at all, the pair of them started to laugh. And how they laughed, the kind when you couldn’t stop, and your sides ached and your cheeks hurt.

  Dorothy sniffed hard and wiped away the tears. ‘Might I add, matronly does become you… but Etty, I’ve been longing to tell you… your hair really does need a trim.’

  The pair of them dissolved again into shrieks of laughter.

  Trevor tossed and turned in bed. It was four o’clock in the morning and Norma yelled in the back bedroom as if someone was trying to murder her. In an attempt to get some sleep, he pulled the bedcovers over his head. Etty came through from the passage and climbed into bed.

  ‘Are you just going to leave her to yell?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no pacifying her. She’s fed and dry and apart from rocking her to sleep, there’s nothing else I can do.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Norma’s got to learn, Trevor, she can’t be picked up every time she cries.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Dorothy and I agreed––’

  ‘Since when did your sister become an authority on bairns?’

  His wife sighed deeply.

  The floorboards upstairs creaked. Ma Milne was awake – no doubt she’d heard the bairn. Norma’s screams pierced the air and for an instant Trevor wished his mother still had the key to the flat.

  ‘I won’t have your mother interfering.’ Etty’s voice was adamant in the dark.

  ‘You’ve not complained before.’ He knew he was being unfair but he was tired and had only a couple of hours before work.

  ‘That was then.’ Etty’s voice implied the subject was closed.

  When the bairn had yelled in the past, Ma Milne would appear as if by magic, and he could get back to sleep. Worried sick by the way Etty had been mooning about the place, not interested in anyone or anything, Trevor hadn’t known what was wrong with her or how to put it right. But these days, Etty was firm and wouldn’t let the bairn out of her sight, and though Trevor was pleased, he needed a full night’s kip if he was to do a day’s graft.

  ‘Where’s the harm in me ma taking the bairn for one night?’

  ‘If you don’t know, Trevor, there’s no point me trying to tell you.’

  ‘You need the rest.’

  ‘Norma is getting too attached to your mam,’ she said, ‘and I want it stopped.’

  Trevor made up his mind that he wouldn’t take sides between the two feisty women. They were both capable of fighting their own corner and what he wanted was a peaceful life and a full night’s kip. It didn’t pay to get involved. Then Trevor remembered when he had had no choice but to get involved over the naming of the baby. It hadn’t been his finest moment. Personally, he didn’t give a monkeys what name the bairn was given as long as it wasn’t something outlandish that would make them a laughing stock in the community. His ma, however, approaching him with that ‘careful how you tread, son’ look in her eye, had demanded the bairn be called Norma, as that was the name she’d chosen for him, if he had been born a girl. Etty, equally, had her heart set on Elizabeth.

  At a loss to know what to do, he tested the waters by telling his wife he thought Norma a grand name for their daughter. Turning towards him, Etty, with her gorgeous hazel eyes shining in appreciation, had replied, ‘It’s lovely that you’ve come up with a name. Norma, it is, then.’

  Trevor had never felt such a cad.

  As months passed, Norma mercifully slept through the night and Etty became her old self.

  Etty’s daughter, a source of wonder, could now sit upright supported by a pillow and, with chubby little legs protruding, would rotate her head, owl-like, and watch her mother as she moved around the kitchen. With a crop of blonde hair and spectacular blue eyes, she was indeed a bonny baby, but her temperament was not an easy-going one. For, even at this age, if she didn’t get her own way, she was prone to throw a temper tantrum. If a favourite toy was out of reach, or fell from the pram, her little body would go stiff with rage and, blue in the face, she’d hold her breath and Etty would panic until the little tinker would take an energising breath and let out an ear-splitting scream.

  One Sunday afternoon, they sat in Dorothy’s kitchen listening to some light classical music on the wireless. Norma, looking angelic, was asleep on her mother’s lap, while Dorothy sat on the couch, needles clicking. Etty looked at the contour of the bairn’s face and found herself searching for any similarity to Billy. With her hair colouring and eyes, Norma did resemble him, Etty realised, and the child would be a reminder of that fateful night for the rest of her life.

  ‘The news will be coming on soon,’ she remarked, to stop her train of thought.

  There was a fire in the grate and the room was cosy and warm, creating a somnolent atmosphere. Etty could barely keep her eyes open.

  She sat up and stretched. ‘I can’t stay, Trevor said he’d be home from his run by dinner time. The meat’s in the oven but I’ve still got the vegetables to do.’ She shrugged. ‘Whoever said Sundays were a day of rest should be shot.’

  ‘Probably a man,’ Dorothy replied, and they both laughed.

  Etty smiled fondly at her sleeping daughter. ‘This tinker keeps me on my toes any day of the week.’

  Dorothy counted loops. ‘Just think of the amount of work we did at Blakely… and we were just children.’

  ‘I’d rather not think about that, thank you very much.’

  ‘What about Sandra… Miss Balfour… and the rest of the orphans? D’you ever wonder what happened to them?’

  This was getting too close for comfort to the topic of Mam, Etty thought.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘I only hope that when this war is over and done, the orphans will have found homes and be spared from going back to Blakely.’

  ‘I would think not… after all the damage that was done.’

  ‘What damage?’ Etty asked, suddenly wide-awake.

  ‘Blakely took a hit during the bombing last October.’

  ‘But… why didn’t I hear of it?’
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  ‘Because you were in shock after your terrible experience in the shelter. And afterwards I didn’t want you upset.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  Dorothy shrugged. ‘News like that travels fast. Later on, I went up to the site, to see for myself.’

  Etty was dumbfounded that her sister had never mentioned any of this before.

  ‘You’re braver than me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t return… not for any reason.’

  ‘I wanted to put the ghosts to rest.’

  Dorothy’s gaze held a faraway look, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Mam still lives in my mind.’

  ‘Can’t you let the past rest?’

  ‘If only I knew the true facts, perhaps then I could.’

  ‘But we never will.’

  Dorothy’s chin trembling, she nodded.

  Etty worried at her sister’s emotional state. Unable to comfort Dorothy with platitudes, she changed the subject. ‘What about the Knowles?’

  Dorothy wiped her eye with the heel of her hand. She sniffed. ‘A man from the demolition squad told me that Benson, the old gardener, had been killed, so had Mr Knowles, and that the Mistress of the establishment was taken to the infirmary in a bad way.’

  Poor Benson, thought Etty. All he had wanted from life was decent weather to work in his garden and watch the plants grow. He had had a wife who he’d adored, but had confided in Etty that she’d died from tuberculosis. The only comfort Etty felt at his tragic passing was that he would now be reunited with her.

  Etty’s mind then turned to Mistress Knowles and those horrid dead fish eyes. Scenes from life at Blakely ran through her mind, disturbing her.

  ‘Don’t, Etty,’ Dorothy spoke softly. ‘Leave the memories in the past where they belong.’

  Dorothy was right. Mistress Knowles had blighted her childhood, and Etty would be damned if she’d allow the woman to intrude on the future.

  ‘I thought it time you knew.’ Dorothy took up her knitting again.

  ‘You did right. We can now close the door on that chapter of our lives.’