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

by Shirley Dickson

  Norma started to stir.

  ‘I must be off.’ Etty scooped the bairn up in her arms and stood up, kicking the ball of white wool on the floor. ‘Anyway, what are you making?’

  ‘A bonnet and mittens.’

  ‘But those won’t fit her in the winter?’

  ‘Who said they were for Norma?’

  Dorothy gave a sly smile, and the full impact of what she meant hit Etty.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Afraid not… it’s your turn to be an aunty.’

  It was a Monday afternoon. Trevor had just got home from work and read the note propped up on the mantelpiece.

  Gone to get the rations in. Your dinner’s keeping warm in the oven. Try and get some sleep. See you after.

  xx Etty

  PS I might call in at Dorothy’s

  Might indeed! Etty was never away from that sister of hers and, as far as his kip was concerned, Trevor couldn’t sleep because he was too wound up. Finishing the six till two shift, he’d come home to an empty house, the fire practically out, dirty pots piled high in the sink and the dust so thick he could write his name in it. To add insult to injury, the unappetising smell of overcooked food wafted from the oven.

  On one occasion, he’d confronted Etty.

  ‘You might as well pack your bags and live with your sister,’ he’d said, his tone more antagonistic than he’d meant.

  They’d quarrelled and he’d ended up sleeping on the couch. He shook his head; it wasn’t a moment he was proud of.

  He had a mind to nip upstairs to his mother’s flat for a bite of dinner, but then he thought better of it – she’d only gloat, calling his wife a lazy good-for-nothing, and him a mug for marrying her.

  To be honest, he thought, as he sagged into a chair, after months of thinking Etty had gone doolally, he was relieved the feisty girl he’d married was back.

  It clicked, that as it was Monday, Mr Newman would be driving the van to the timber merchants. No doubt he’d need a hand carrying heavy timber into the backyard. Trevor wolfed down his dinner, a plate of pig’s liver, taties and carrots, so dried-up it clagged to the roof of his mouth.

  He changed into decent clothes and slammed out of the house.

  As he crossed the cobbles, Mrs Raffle came out of one of the self-contained houses over the road. Her husband was a dentist and the woman – about the same age as him – had that refined look that spoke of money. Whenever he gave out his address, Trevor was always quick to point out that he lived at the top end of Whale Street, where professional folk like the Raffles resided.

  The lady gave him a pleasant smile. ‘Good day, Mr Milne.’

  Mrs Raffle wore a classically smart grey frock, black high-heeled shoes, lisle stockings, and she was rake thin. Trevor sniffed; no self-respecting bloke would want his wife to look that skinny, it shrieked that he couldn’t provide properly. Trevor had no worries on that score; his wife was suitably well endowed. There again, he thought, these genteel women folks were always painfully thin.

  Surprised to see her carrying a pail filled with leftover food, Trevor put on his Sunday best smile. ‘Good day to you. I’ll take the scraps up the lane for you, if you want?’

  Galvanised bins were placed at lane ends, so that folk could put scraps in them for the street pig.

  ‘Would you? How kind. It’s a task I hate. Though I’m in favour of the end result.’

  He took the pail from her and, walking up the street, lifted the bin lid. Depositing the scraps, he pulled a disgusted face. The contents of the bin smelt to high heavens.

  He returned to Mrs Raffles, who thanked him kindly.

  She beamed a pleasant smile. ‘How’s that baby of yours, Mr Milne? A girl, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye… she’s champion, thanks. She’s called Norma.’

  ‘Delightful name. You must be a very proud dad.’

  ‘I am that.’

  Watching Mrs Raffle disappear into the house, Trevor realised in mild surprise, that he was. She was cute, was Norma. Her bonny blue eyes and gummy smile turned heads when he took her out for a stroll in the pram. As far as Trevor was concerned, the bairn was his, and let no man say otherwise. Yet the seed of doubt niggled in his mind. No matter how he tried to banish the fact Norma wasn’t his, the truth kept surfacing. Trevor reasoned that if he knew who the bloke was, he might be able to come to put the past behind him. But like a dog gnawing at a bone, he kept wondering about it.

  By heck, Norma could throw a paddy, and her screams went straight through him. Aye, he loved his little lass, but bairns were women’s work.

  Mind you, not that he saw much of her these days. Since Dorothy had announced she was expecting, Etty might as well have moved into her sister’s flat. There was a health complication, apparently – that Trevor didn’t want to know about – and whatever it was, the doctor had ordered complete bed rest. So, while Dorothy was waited on hand and foot, he went without.

  His ma’s voice rang in his ears. Son, if you had any self-respect, you’d stop your wife’s gallivanting. Call yourself a man… you’re nowt but a mouse.

  Trevor’s lips bunched. One of these days he would tell his mother exactly what she could do with her advice.

  It was a blustery, though sunny, December day and Etty was giving Dorothy a hand hanging out the washing in the lane. As Dorothy stretched to peg out a sheet, her maternity smock rode up and Etty glimpsed the satisfying mound of her abdomen. But elsewhere her sister was still painfully thin. In the early weeks of her pregnancy, Dorothy had bled and it was feared she might miscarry. Four months on, all seemed well, but it was Etty’s firm belief that her sister couldn’t be too careful.

  She eyed Norma, who sat propped up against a pillow, watching the kiddies up the cobbled lane take turns with a skipping rope. Earlier, the bairn had caused a rumpus because she hadn’t wanted to go into her pram. Her screams could be heard up the lane and, embarrassingly, folk poked their heads out of yard doors to see what was going on. When, finally, after a walk, Norma was pacified, Etty had called in at Dorothy’s, where she confessed she didn’t know how to handle her daughter when she had a temper tantrum.

  Etty took a pillowcase from the pail. It wasn’t just her daughter who was being troublesome. She remembered the last time she and Trevor had rowed. He chided her in an uncivil tone about how often she visited Dorothy. They’d rowed and he’d stormed off and spent the night in the kitchen on the couch. Later, she’d tiptoed along the passageway to check on Norma and there was Trevor checking on the sleeping bairn. In that moment she’d forgiven the man. His heart was in the right place.

  Dorothy faced Etty with a stricken expression. ‘It’s frightening isn’t it, the thought of bringing up a child? I so want to do what’s best for our baby.’

  ‘You will… you’ll make a wonderful mam.’

  But Dorothy wasn’t listening. ‘I really do think,’ she said, ‘what happens to a child moulds the future person.’ She had something on her mind, Etty could tell. ‘Laurie and I… have made a decision. After the war’s over we’re going to live out in the country.’

  Etty was stunned.

  Dorothy’s eyes shone with fervour. ‘I know life’s full of uncertainties, but I want to make sure I’ve given my baby the very best start.’

  Etty felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Where in the country?’

  ‘Somewhere in Northumberland. Laurie believes he can set up a business on his own in the building trade and we could rent a cottage.’

  Etty couldn’t believe her sister hadn’t breathed a word of this before, and said so.

  Annoyingly, Dorothy only laughed. ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘As if I’d leave you behind! Our plan is to include you and Trevor. We could all go; there’s nothing to stop us. Trevor will find work too.’

  As the idea grew in her mind, Etty saw the possibilities.

  An easterly wind whipped up and, while Dorothy swilled the yard with t
he water out of the washtub, Etty went inside. She gathered Norma’s spare nappies and her handbag in readiness for home as Trevor would be back any minute for his tea.

  The more she considered Dorothy’s proposal, the better she liked it. Trevor wanted out of the pit and there was bound to be work for him in Northumberland. The bonus would be no more interference from Mrs Milne, though Etty wouldn’t deprive Nellie of seeing her grandchild and would welcome visits. But the real reason the idea appealed was the thought of endless green fields, big blue skies, and a life lived in a close-knit family – something Etty had always craved, and was denied as a child.

  A knock came at the front door. Her mind leapfrogging with possibilities for the future, Etty made her way along the passage and opened the door.

  A lad from the post office stood there.

  He held out an orange envelope. ‘Telegram for Mrs Calvert.’

  For the second time that day, the blood drained from Etty’s face and she resisted the urge to slam the door in the lad’s impassive face.

  ‘That’ll be mine,’ the voice came from behind.

  Dorothy held out a trembling hand.

  19

  Though of course the sisters knew about the heavy losses of ships at sea, they never spoke about it to one another. But the fact that German submarines did great damage to the British fleet was always on Etty’s mind, plus the threat of magnetic mines – a device ships attracted at their peril. And she couldn’t discount the enemy in the sky.

  Destroyers such as Laurie’s escorted the brave merchant ships that brought quantities of food and raw materials to British shores and munitions to Russia.

  Laurie’s destroyer, she learned later, was one of four that had escorted a convoy to the port of Murmansk in Russia. As it had plodded through the North Atlantic sea, the ship was torpedoed and went down with a great loss of life, Laurie’s included.

  Etty’s reaction to the telegram was to go numb. She went through the motions, her only thoughts for Dorothy, and how to help her sister get through the initial unbearable shock. The only way she could think to help was by being practical. She brewed a cup of sweet tea, brought the washing in, helped Dorothy – who appeared to have frozen – into a comfy chair. Her sister white with shock, stared into space and seemed incapable of taking anything in.

  Then panic seized Etty. Her hands shook, and her heart raced so fast she thought she was having a heart attack. She didn’t know what to do for the best. Phone the doctor for a sedative for Dorothy? Encourage her sister to speak about what had happened? Worried that she might do or say the wrong thing, Etty ended up not doing anything. Feeling weepy, she slumped in a chair opposite Dorothy.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do here, Etty,’ Dorothy spoke in monotone. ‘It’s best if you take Norma home out of the cold.’

  Etty started, she’d forgotten all about her daughter. ‘I’m not leaving you alone.’

  Dorothy’s lips quivered. ‘Don’t make it hard. I want… I need to be by myself just now.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Etty’s mouth was dry. She swallowed. ‘But once Norma’s settled, I’m coming back and I’m staying the night. Norma can stay with Trevor’s mam for once.’

  They say that the good die young and in Laurie’s case never was a truer word spoken. Etty couldn’t cope with the loss of her brother-in-law. She loved the burly man with his big heart and gentle ways, and she knew there’d never be anyone finer in her life.

  ‘It seems unreal,’ she told Trevor one night as they sat by the fire. ‘Any minute, I expect Laurie to walk into the room.’ A pang of sorrow engulfed her.

  ‘Now is not the time to think of your own grief,’ Trevor replied, brutally honest. ‘You have to concentrate on Dorothy.’

  Etty didn’t take offence because she knew her husband, in this case, was right – and with God’s help, she’d find a way to get Dorothy through this.

  Those first few days, Dorothy carried on as usual, not appearing to feel the impact of Laurie’s death. Etty, deeply concerned, knew her sister was in shock. Her face tinged grey, eyes defeated, Dorothy appeared shrunken. She ate little, slept fitfully and chatted about daily affairs, but never once did she refer to her husband or his demise.

  Desperate to know how to help, she approached Trevor for his advice at teatime. They were sitting at opposite ends of the table. Trevor’s eyes strayed to the Gazette at his elbow.

  ‘Are you listening, Trevor?’

  ‘Eh!’ He pierced a piece of fishcake with his fork.

  ‘I’m at my wits’ end what to do.’

  He stared blankly at her. ‘About what?’

  ‘Dorothy.’

  Fork mid-air, he averted his gaze and appeared uncomfortable. It occurred to Etty that his anxiety was due to the fact that they were on the verge of discussing emotion. She could identify with that particular problem. Years at Blakely had taught her to feel awkward whenever sentiment was shown and seeing this flaw in Trevor made her understand him a little more.

  ‘I’d value any help you can give,’ she told him.

  A mixture of surprise and pleasure crossing his face, Trevor deliberated as he chewed his food.

  She could talk over most things now with Trevor, she realised, his practical mind helping to find a solution.

  Finally, he said, ‘I’m no good at this kind of thing but if I were you I’d ask Mr Newman. If anybody can help, it’s him.’

  So Etty sought Mr Newman’s advice the very next day. After all, she reasoned, his job was dealing with grieving relatives.

  ‘I’ve seen this before, Mrs Milne,’ he said. ‘Your sister’s in shock and shying away from reality.’

  Mr Newman kindly invited Etty upstairs to his living room, a gloomy space overcrowded with dark, heavy furniture. Ramona Newman, overly gracious and dripping with sympathy, offered Etty a sherry.

  ‘A treat for the nerves,’ she said, with a wary glance at her husband. ‘You should get your sister to try some.’

  Etty declined but accepted tea that, surprisingly, was brought in on a tray by May Robinson. Etty briefly wondered why the lass worked for Mr Newman, before growing uncomfortable. She felt nervous around May and couldn’t meet her eyes. She would be devastated if she knew the truth, Etty reflected guiltily.

  Mr Newman paced the floor as he spoke. ‘The trouble is,’ he momentarily paused and pinned Etty with a brutal stare, ‘there isn’t a body for your sister to bury and with no arrangements to make, her husband’s death doesn’t seem real.’

  Etty had experienced some of the same herself. At times, she expected Laurie to walk through the door and announce that his death had all been a ghastly mistake.

  ‘I suppose you’re––’

  ‘There’s no supposing about it. My advice to you is to let your sister come round in her own time.’

  Mrs Newman took a cup of tea from the tray. ‘You know fine well, Roland, when some folk lose a loved one, they niver get over the shock. Maybe that’ll be the way of it for Mrs Calvert.’

  Hysteria rose in Etty and she calmed herself by staring at the tapestry fire screen and, taking deep breaths, counted to ten. If the situation weren’t so serious, Ramona’s lack of subtlety would be laughable.

  ‘My dear,’ Mr Newman said with great restraint. ‘This is not the time for comparisons.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help,’ his wife flounced.

  ‘Would it be possible…’ May butted in, ‘if I came to see Dorothy to give condolences?’ She looked uncertainly at Etty.

  The lass stood next to an occasional table, a china teapot in her hand. Her face had a ghastly pallor as if she too had suffered some form of shock.

  ‘I don’t think Dorothy’s ready to face anyone yet,’ Etty told her.

  ‘Have you asked her? If I was you I wouldn’t treat her with kid gloves.’ May’s chin jutted and Etty felt a modicum of respect for her.

  The lass had spunk, Etty thought.

  ‘Though I wouldn’t be as forthright as May, she has got
a point. Tiptoeing around your sister isn’t the way. Be natural around her and talk often about your brother-in-law with ease… even if she can’t. That’s the ticket.’ The conversation undoubtedly over, he made for the door. ‘And Mrs Milne,’ he said, his hand on the doorknob, ‘please give my sincere condolences to your sister for her loss.’

  With no other authority to compare it with, Etty took Mr Newman’s advice. She spoke about Laurie whenever she could and ignored her sister’s uneasy silence.

  Amongst other things, Etty wondered aloud about Laurie’s family, reminisced about the past, and went on to deliberate what they should do with his clothes. She despaired when nothing seemed to get through to Dorothy. Throughout her life, Etty realised, she’d always relied on her sister. Now the roles were reversed, it was her turn to be strong and she vowed she wouldn’t fail Dorothy. Then came the day when things changed – and it started with the most innocent of events.

  It had snowed during the night, melting to slush by morning. Etty bundled Norma in warm outdoors clothes and, putting her in the pram and swaddling her with blankets, made her way down to Dorothy’s. She banged on the doorknocker and her sister answered.

  ‘I’m off to the shop. Do you need anything?’

  Dorothy looked her up and down and scrutinised her feet. ‘Your shoes are soaked through,’ she said. ‘Why aren’t you wearing wellingtons?’

  ‘They’ve got a hole in them and I need a new pair.’

  ‘You’re the same size as me. You can borrow mine.’

  Putting on the pram brakes, Etty followed her along the passage. Dorothy opened the understairs cupboard door and disappeared. She seemed to take an age and when she reappeared, she held, to Etty’s surprise, an aged tennis racket in her hand.

  Tears rolled down her face.

  ‘Laurie’s?’ Etty asked.

  Dorothy nodded. ‘He… reckoned he was a champ in his youth.’ Her chin quivered. ‘He’s isn’t coming back, is he?’

  ‘No,’ Etty said, gently. ‘Laurie died, Dorothy. I’m so sorry.’