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

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘Mother, I’ll wait until you’re safely inside.’

  ‘Aye… you’re full of concern now… when yon hussy’s not here.’

  She was itching for a row. ‘Ma I’ve got to get back to work. It’s been a long day, and I’m bone weary.’

  ‘Heaven help that I should keep you.’

  She fitted the key in the lock and hurried inside. ‘Our Trevor, you’ll be the death of me yet,’ she said, head poking around the door.

  ‘And good riddance,’ he muttered as he stomped off down the street.

  Later, around midnight, as he helped Mr Newman carry the coffin down the street, Trevor marvelled at the hours he could go without sleep. Despite his tiredness it was good to be out in the fresh air. The sky was clear and the smell of sea mingled with wood smoke drifted on a soft breeze.

  Sealed and polished with wax, the coffin had a brass nameplate attached to its lid and, fortunately, it fitted through the front doorway. This came as a great relief because many a window had to be removed to allow a coffin to enter a deceased’s house.

  Slinky’s wife waited for them in the kitchen.

  Hands on hips, she demanded of Mr Newman, ‘Where did you say you found this money?’

  ‘Lodged down a sock.’

  ‘The mean bugger. His bairns half starved, the rent man’s breathin’ doon me neck and all the time he’s been hoardin’ this.’ She held out the roll of money in her hand. ‘Mister,’ she told the boss, ‘I’ll give that rotten sod o’ mine a decent burial but I want everythin’ done on the cheap… is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ the boss replied, poker-faced. ‘Our aim is to please at Newman’s.’

  Trevor’s thoughts, as he made his way home, turned to the wad of pound notes he’d found in Slinky’s sock, money wasted on a man like Charlie who would only drink it away. In his mind, Trevor dreamed of the life he would live if he were a man of means. It wasn’t so much the wealth, he concluded, but the doors it opened. He reflected on his present state, shoulders heaving as he sighed. What was the point of money if you had no one to share it with? He thought of a future without Etty – and it hurt like hell.

  The flat was in darkness as he entered and he reasoned that Etty must be fast asleep in bed. An empty spirit bottle stood in the scullery sink and the last piece of pie beckoned from a plate on the cabinet bench.

  Trevor scrubbed his hands under the tap and, drying them, picked up the piece of pie and ate it. Checking the back door was locked, he made his way along the passage, removing his collar and tie as he went. He opened the bedroom door and made his way over in the darkness to the mantelpiece. But something blocked his way.

  ‘What the––’

  ‘Shh! You’ll wake her.’ Etty hissed from the bed.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bairn.’

  ‘Norma’s in here?’

  ‘No. Victoria. In her Moses basket.’

  ‘Why’s she here?’

  ‘To give Dorothy a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Hurrah, for Dorothy. What about me?’

  ‘Shhh!’

  ‘Don’t shush me, woman.’

  Silence.

  ‘Why wasn’t I consulted?’

  Trevor felt undermined. He collected his pyjamas from the bottom of the bed.

  Bedclothes rustled as Etty sat up. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m off to the couch to get a bit of peace.’

  ‘Don’t wake the bairn.’

  Tiptoeing into the kitchen, Trevor made up his mind – life couldn’t go on like this.

  Trevor woke hot and sticky. Disorientated, he tried to think where he was. A baby was crying. He saw Norma’s pram hurtling down a grassy slope towards a cliff edge. He tried to save her but as he ran, he ran on the spot. He broke out in a drenching sweat. Faster and faster went the pram down the slope. Norma’s face – framed by a white frilled bonnet, as she looked out from the pram – was screwed up and angry-looking.

  Trevor covered his ears, but he could still hear a baby crying.

  His mind grappled with the idea that he was dreaming. Then the truth dawned on him.

  In an instant, he was wide awake. God in heaven, it couldn’t be – but the insistent wail of the air raid siren outside told Trevor that it was.

  25

  Etty slept fitfully and at the first pitiable whimper from Victoria, she started awake.

  She flung back the bedcovers, switching on the bedside lamp.

  Quarter past two.

  Pattering along to the kitchen, she took the kettle off the hob. A short while after, back in the bedroom, she fed Victoria from the banana-shaped bottle, made up with national dried milk.

  As she sat on the edge of the bed, Etty gazed down at the child nestled in her arm. A seductive smell of milk and warm skin wafted from Victoria and she watched her aunt with her navy-blue eyes. Etty felt a tug of longing. She’d like another bairn, she surprised herself by thinking, a sister for Norma. Then she shied away from the idea. The memory of those bleak months after Norma was born was still fresh in her mind. Besides, with the way things were between her and Trevor, conceiving a child was not an option.

  She sat Victoria upright and, supporting her head, tapped her gently on the back. The little tinker let out a burp that would make any grown man proud. Etty started to laugh but before it reached her lips, the noise that bellowed outside made her stomach clench.

  The wail of the air-raid siren.

  ‘Move, woman.’ Trevor burst into the room, raven black hair standing on end. ‘I’ll take Norma to the shelter. You bring her,’ he nodded to Victoria in her arms.

  He donned a jersey, pulled trousers over his pyjamas and dashed from the room.

  Heart thumping in her chest, Etty placed Victoria back in her Moses basket and hurried to the cupboard under the stairs. She grabbed a suitcase, packed for such an occasion, and picked up nappies and the bag full of essentials that Dorothy had left for the baby. Etty hurried through to the shelter, only to bump into Trevor coming the other way.

  ‘Take these,’ she bundled the suitcase and nappies into his arms.

  At that moment came the distant mutter of guns. By the light of a silver moon, she saw Trevor, a transfixed figure, looking up towards the sky.

  ‘Move, Trevor,’ she shouted.

  Her mind surprisingly focused, she considered what else she’d need. She dashed back under the stairs and brought out the little paraffin stove. Hurrying into the bedroom she took hold of the Moses basket’s handles and made a run for the outside.

  Halting at the shelter door, she paused to glance over her shoulder, seeing circular beams criss-crossing in the darkened heavens.

  She dived into the shelter and slammed the door.

  The light was dim and the atmosphere reeked of damp and candle grease. Trevor, the pile of essentials dumped at his feet, searched the wooden shelf and brought out a torch. Built across the wall behind him were slender bunk beds. Norma, blissfully unaware, slept in the upper one, with a rail attached to stop her from falling out.

  Etty placed the Moses basket on the lower bunk bed.

  As she watched, Trevor pulled on his rubber boots, waterproof leggings and trousers. Etty asked, ‘What about your mam?’

  His green eyes, glistening in the candlelight, looked agonised and torn.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally ask but… Etty, can you go? You know how slow she can be.’ He rubbed the back of his neck in an agitated fashion. ‘Out of a team of five in this area there’s only the three of us tonight.’ He grabbed his stirrup pump, bucket and shovel. ‘Two if I don’t get a move on. And you know those incendiary bombs; if they’re not spotted quickly they start a fire and lives are lost.’ He hesitated, looking over to the sleeping bairns. ‘The kids are tucked up and settled.’

  Etty nodded consent.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Their eyes met and for an instant he looked as if he wanted to say something, then his face hardened and the moment passed. He put on his st
eel helmet and, opening the door, Trevor was gone.

  Etty wondered what he wanted to say. Then she remembered his appalling behaviour of late. Likely, he wanted to pick another argument. Damn the man, he got under her skin. But she didn’t need him… Etty could manage nicely on her own.

  Their voices must have disturbed Norma because she started to whimper. Planes droned in the distance, crumps coming from the coastal area.

  Etty, terrified the bairn would wake properly and would never go back to sleep, stroked her forehead with her fingertips and whispered a favourite lullaby.

  Go to sleep,

  Go to sleep,

  Go to sleep little baby.

  Close your eyes––

  Hot and crotchety, Norma started to cry. Etty picked her up, rocking her until her arms ached, to no avail.

  The raiders came nearer and then in waves, roaring alarmingly close overhead. Every nerve in Etty’s body tensed and she prayed for their lives. The bombers thundered on and up the coast where sporadic thuds could be heard from the Newcastle area.

  In the silence, Norma kicked and screamed. Feeling desperate, knowing she had to fetch Ma Milne, Etty didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Please baby…’ Her jaw ached with clenching. ‘Just this once… I haven’t time… not tonight.’

  She persevered rocking.

  Finally, when Norma’s eyelids drooped and she breathed evenly, Etty dared to put her on the top bunk.

  She waited a few minutes before blowing the candles out and taking her overcoat from behind the door, slipping outside into the yard. By a luminous moon that hung in the sky, Etty gazed towards the dock area and saw in its spotlight, an enemy aircraft heading this way.

  Fizzing with dread, she tore towards the sloping stairs. Pressing the door sneck, she stepped inside.

  ‘Nellie!’ she yelled.

  Seconds passed and Etty hollered again. ‘Are you there?’

  The drone of aeroplanes came closer. High-pitched whistles pierced the night air followed by a tremendous explosion. Bits of plaster fell on Etty’s head.

  Legs trembling, she began climbing the stairs but stopped when a reedy voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me. Etty.’

  ‘I want me son. I’ll not budge till Trevor comes.’

  Etty’s nerves jangled. The silly beggar would get them both killed. Frantic as to what to do she hit on an idea – if that didn’t work she’d return to the children.

  ‘Nellie. Norma’s crying. She’s frightened and wants Grandma,’ she called into the darkness.

  The door on the top landing slammed and movements could be heard on the stairs.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Nellie sounded stronger.

  Relief surged through Etty. But, as the roar of aeroplanes returned, it was short-lived. The bombers came over in groups and, seemingly, skimmed the rooftops. Guns blazed from the ground and bombs made a screaming descent. There was a drawn out whistle and a blinding flash and the earth beneath Etty trembled. Another amazing flash and something caught her eye. Hair braided into a plait, and dressed in an ankle length dressing gown, Nellie’s ghostlike figure glided down towards her.

  ‘Hurry!’ Etty screamed.

  Her voice was drowned out as more bombs rained down, sounding as if they exploded before hitting the ground. Nails digging into her palms, Etty was scared and yet spellbound, as if she watched on in a dream. There was a sudden blue flash and she hit the ground, hands over her head. Buildings toppled down with an almighty crash and a long crescendo of noise from glass breaking. Etty couldn’t breathe for dust and smoke in the staircase. Her eyes burned and she coughed until she retched.

  Then there was a lull, when Etty realised the raiders had passed. Legs trembling, her only thought was for the shelter. Stricken by the thought of what she might find, she could barely breathe. She made to dash down the stairs – then froze and listened. Creaks emanated from all around her.

  Before she could let out a scream, the staircase walls caved in.

  Meanwhile, as Trevor made his way towards St Michael’s Church, guilt gnawed at him and he regretted leaving his wife to manage on her own. He was the man of the house, it was up to him to protect his family. Torn on whether to go back, he reasoned that duty called.

  ‘Is that you, Mr Milne?’ a voice called out in the darkness.

  Trevor crinkled his eyes and by the light of the moon, made out the uniform of the air raid warden – blue battledress and tin hat. Mr Thompson, a man in his mid-fifties had an air of authority and a world-weary countenance.

  ‘Aye, it is. I’m making me way to the church tower, watching for incendiary bombs.’

  ‘It’s already covered.’ The warden looked towards the sky. ‘Man, it doesn’t bode well, does it?’

  A familiar noise throbbed in the distance.

  They came like a swarm of angry wasps up the coast. His face upturned, Trevor watched as planes roared overhead.

  A hand grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Haway, man,’ the warden yelled. ‘Take cover in the church till its ower with. We’re no help if wi’ dead.’

  Crossing the main road, they ran up the winding driveway. Heaving the church door open, they sagged in the relative safety of the vestibule.

  With its soaring roof and draughty crannies, the church was dimly lit. The only source of light was the moon shining through stained glass windows. A few folk sat in pews, heads bent, praying for dear life. As planes roared overhead, it felt as if the very foundations of the building shook. Then came a lull, when raiders droned in the distance towards the Newcastle area.

  ‘That was a close shave,’ the warden shook his head. ‘It’s not over yet… I feel it in me bones. We’re headed for a full-scale raid.’ He turned away. ‘I’m off to central control. You, Mr Milne, check for incendiary bombs and fire incidents.’

  The warden, boots clattering down the aisle, made for the door.

  Trevor, following, eyed a stone pillar that towered up to the rafters. He shuddered; if one of those blighters toppled down they’d all be gonners.

  Retracing his steps, he froze and listened to the throbbing in the distance.

  Raiders.

  He ran the rest of the way down the aisle, emerging into the cool night air, watching as enemy planes came straight at him. Wave after wave thundered overhead. Mesmerised, it didn’t occur to him to run for cover. Black blobs fell from the planes, and when the bombs exploded, a crimson hue spread over the houses. His mouth went dry as he realised, with a jolt, that the bombs were falling on the Westoe area.

  Galvanised into action, Trevor ran pell-mell through the streets into the thick of the destruction, with only one thought on his mind – Etty and his bairn.

  His breaths came in hot gasps and he yelled to the gods, I didn’t mean it, that she could go to hell.

  Sweat dripping in his eyes, he stood at the top of the lane, out of breath and panting.

  The raiders had gone, reduced to a distant drone out at sea.

  A chill of fear ran down Trevor’s spine; he was unable to take in what he saw. Fires raged all around and he could see wreckage piled high in the lane. Houses smouldered and an acrid smell of burning hung in the air; gaps loomed between buildings where dwellings had toppled down. Folk, buried in the rubble, were being brought out on backyard doors then ferried away by volunteers to the infirmary. By far the worst to bear were the cries for help from those still trapped beneath the wreckage.

  Trevor braced himself and raced down the lane, not daring to look where his house should stand. But there it was, soaring into the sky. Trevor went weak with relief. Hang on, he thought as fear gripped him, the back door’s missing, so is the yard wall.

  He climbed over the rubble and, seeing the shelter walls intact, Trevor found he could breathe deeply again. His eyes travelled to his home, the shattered windows and then to the pile of rubble that once was his ma’s stairs.

  He made for the shelter. Opening the door, he shone his torch in the darkness. Th
e beam picked out Norma sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Etty!’ he called.

  No answer.

  He moved the beam around the walls.

  ‘Ma!’

  Still no answer. Realising what might have happened, Trevor’s bowels slackened in fear.

  Trevor needed help if he was to get Etty and Ma out from beneath the rubble. He ran, hell for leather, down the lane to a group of men on hands and knees, clawing through wreckage.

  Putrid smells caught the back of Trevor’s throat, causing a bout of coughing. He spotted the warden, noticing that his hands were cut and bleeding.

  ‘Can you spare someone?’ He struggled to stay calm. ‘It’s me wife and ma, I think the back stairs has collapsed on them.’

  Mr Thompson looked up, his eyes red holes in a grimy face.

  ‘I’m doing all I soddin’ can, Mr Milne.’ He removed his steel hat and wiped the sweat from his eyes with a forearm. ‘You’ve a bairn, haven’t you? What about her?’

  ‘There’s two of them, I’ve left them safe with the neighbour next door.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as quick as I can.’ The warden resumed his work. ‘Meanwhile, we could do with a hand here.’

  No way would Trevor stay, his family needed him – he’d claw them out of the rubble himself if needs be. He made to dart away but boots clattering on the cobbles down the lane stopped him. A young lad addressed the warden.

  ‘The incident officer’s sent a runner off to control,’ he reported.

  ‘For reinforcements?’

  ‘Aye. He says twenty or so buildings are wrecked in the area and a bomb’s dropped outside the Regent Cinema. The A.R.P. stores and the entrance to the public shelter are wrecked… the garage is gone… tramlines are torn up and there’s a problem with a burst water main. And…’ he drew breath and looked hesitantly at the warden, ‘the wardens’ post in Dean Road is damaged.’

  ‘Bugger! What about fires?’

  ‘A house down the lane’s still raging.’

  The warden pierced him with a grim stare. ‘I can see that for meself, sonny. What about the homeless?’