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

by Shirley Dickson

  ‘Temporary Rest Centres are to be made in local schools.’

  The warden looked at Trevor and appeared to make a decision.

  ‘Son,’ he told the messenger, ‘I’m off to help this fella find his Mrs. You take my place till reinforcements arrive.’

  Mission accomplished, Trevor raced up the lane, the warden following behind. As they approached the yard, Mr Thompson assessed the collapsed staircase.

  ‘First thing we do… Trevor, isn’t it?’ Trevor nodded. ‘Is to dig out the back door and work up from there. Steady as you go, though.’

  They worked in silence, clearing bricks, mortar and slates.

  As Trevor toiled, his back breaking, sweat dripping down his spine, the time spent digging seemed an eternity.

  The warden froze. ‘Shh! Did you hear that?’ He cocked his head and listened.

  ‘There it is again.’ The warden pointed to a spot further up the wreckage. ‘Sounds like someone calling… bugger me, it is.’ As sweat tunnelled down his mucky face, he grinned. ‘You know what that means… one of the women is alive.’

  Trevor lunged forward, shovelling debris with his bare hands and soon they were as cut and bloodied as Mr Thompson’s.

  ‘Steady, lad,’ the warden told him. ‘Go slow, at this stage you might do more harm than good.’

  Agitated, Trevor could’ve punched the fella. It was all right for him to talk, his wife wasn’t buried beneath a mountain of rubble and possibly gasping her last breath.

  Then he saw the warden’s tired, defeated face, and all was forgiven.

  ‘Look,’ Mr Thompson’s face broke into a smile, ‘I can see a leg.’

  Caked in grime, the leg was unidentifiable. With renewed strength, Trevor clawed through the pile of brick and mortar. Then an item of clothing appeared, a skirt the same fabric and colour brown that his wife wore. Trevor let out a gratified sob.

  Gingerly, he crawled further up the heap of masonry. As he carefully sifted through rubble, a face surfaced, caked in white dust and streaked with tears.

  Etty’s eyes blinked open.

  Trevor’s heart soared with relief. His wife was alive.

  They pulled her, head to foot in a film of dusty grime, out of the rubble. Together they carried her to a space in the yard and lay her down.

  Etty stared wildly about. To Trevor’s astonishment, she sat up and started pummelling the warden’s chest with clenched fists.

  ‘The girls… I need…’ she implored in short gasps. ‘I shouldn’t have… Norma, you have to find––’

  ‘Whoa, lass.’ Mr Thompson took her hands in his. He nodded knowingly at Trevor, a sign he was used to this kind of behaviour. ‘Your kiddies are safe… your old man, here, brought in a neighbour to look after them.’

  Etty stared incredulously at Trevor.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘There isn’t a scratch on either of the bairns.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Tears slid down her dusty cheeks. Then, she looked around. ‘Where’s Nellie?’ Her voice was croaky.

  ‘She was definitely with you when the stairs collapsed?’ the warden asked.

  ‘Yes. Further up, I think.’

  The warden started back towards the collapsed staircase and Trevor, following, viewed the wreckage that was once his ma’s stairs.

  ‘Lad, it’s been a while since the bombs…’ Mr Thompson’s look told Trevor he should be prepared for the worst.

  As they climbed the rubble and started shovelling with their hands, Trevor noticed the door was missing from the top of the stairs. Stopping for a breather, he viewed the depth of the wreckage. If his mother was down there, he accepted, more than likely she was a goner. His heart ached at the thought. Though she drove him crazy and was a manipulative sort, Trevor loved his ma.

  He started to dig again. His grimy and blood-soaked hands hurt like hell but still he carried on. Gritty dust swirled in the air, assaulting his nostrils and travelling to his chest.

  He cleared the area of bricks and mortar and uncovered the staircase door. As he stood the door on end, he stared down into the face of his mother – an old woman entombed in a rubble filled grave.

  ‘She’s here.’ Heart thudding, Trevor clawed the debris away with his bare hands.

  ‘Bugger me,’ Mr Thompson had taken off his helmet and bent over, checking Ma’s pulse, ‘she’s alive and it’s thanks to that bloody door.’

  Etty watched as two strapping volunteers carted Nellie away to the infirmary.

  Trevor continually asked Etty if she was all right, not leaving her side.

  He took her arm to help her up but she shook him off. ‘Go with your mam. She’ll need you to be close when she comes round.’

  His jaw set, Trevor replied, ‘I’m staying here with you and the bairn.’

  Etty nodded and smiled. She stood on rubbery legs and inspected herself. Apart from a few grazes and a painful wrist, there were no real injuries.

  Her eyes travelled the yard where shards of glass and slates littered the ground. Apart from the collapsed stairs, there was no structural damage. With a heart full of gratitude, she thanked the Lord that her family had survived.

  ‘I’ll have to go. I’m needed elsewhere.’ The warden gave a curt nod.

  As he walked briskly away, Etty called an inadequate ‘thank you’ after him. Stepping over the rubble into the lane, a passing figure hurtling past almost bowled him over.

  ‘Watch it, mate,’ the warden complained. ‘Oh, it’s you, Frank––’ he nodded to a burly fireman.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ rumbled a deep male voice. ‘It’s all hands to a fire out of control down the lane.’

  ‘Blimey…’ said the warden, ‘is that house fire still going?’

  She felt a rush of adrenalin course through her. ‘What house?’ Etty demanded.

  The warden, sprinting down the lane, didn’t answer.

  Moving into the lane, Etty looked to where clouds of smoke billowed from a building. Dread fixed her to the spot and she couldn’t move. She clutched her heart. She didn’t want to look but a voice of authority in her head said she must. She took off, oblivious to the fact that she wore only a nightdress under her coat or, indeed, that the babies might need her. Only one thought dominated her mind.

  Dorothy.

  The lane was piled high with rubble that she clambered over, skirting holes that slowed her down.

  In the distance the ‘all clear’ siren sounded.

  The burning house came into view, flames licking through the top floor windows. Two courageous firemen stood in the yard, hoses in their hand, spraying water.

  ‘No!’ Etty cried. Legs buckling, she almost fell to the ground.

  The building was Dorothy’s.

  26

  Etty ran as if the devil himself chased her. She raced to the end of the block, and rounding the corner, turned into the front street. A crowd watching the inferno from a safe distance saw who it was. Silently, they parted and let her pass.

  Two firemen valiantly fought to bring the blaze under control. A third, hands on his hips, watched the proceedings. Tall and thickset, he had the bearing of a man in charge.

  Etty stepped over the coils of hose snaking the ground and approached him.

  Sensing her presence, he turned. ‘Miss, stay back,’ he ordered.

  She held her ground. ‘D’you know what’s happened to the occupants?’ she asked in a squeaky voice that sounded unlike her own.

  ‘Are you kin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The fireman blew out his cheeks. ‘The old couple… Armstrongs, isn’t it?… are in a bad way. The shelter collapsed on them.’

  ‘What about the lady… Mrs Calvert… downstairs?’

  ‘A neighbour said she met Mrs Calvert last night and she was excited because she was spending the night at her sister’s place.’

  Fear gripped Etty. She could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  ‘That’s me, I––’

  ‘Frank,’ Etty was surprised to see Tr
evor at her side. He addressed the fireman. ‘Mrs Calvert went home last night.’

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Trevor, mate. No one else was in the shelter.’

  ‘My sister never used the outside shelter,’ Etty found her somewhat quivery voice, ‘she always used the Morrison shelter.’

  The fireman looked perplexed. ‘Bugger me…’ he shook his head. ‘Miss, even if I’d known I wouldn’t have sent anyone in. The bomb hit the back of the house and the fire was out of control.’ He looked intently at Trevor. ‘The flames at the front of the property are now under control but the structure’s unsafe.’

  Terror seized Etty. ‘You mean… Dorothy could still be in there?’ Her eyes met Trevor’s. ‘Do something,’ she pleaded.

  He hesitated. Then she saw a flicker of decision gleam in his eyes. Removing his jacket, he protected his head and made a dash for the front door. Ramming the door with his shoulder, it gave way under the strain.

  ‘Trevor, man. No!’ Frank shouted.

  Etty froze; she didn’t mean for him to risk his life. Yes, you did, an inner voice said. She needed her sister to be saved.

  Etty waited.

  Flames licked through the front upstairs window, and then there was an almighty crash as the downstairs ceiling fell down.

  Time stood still.

  Smoke belched from windows and the doorway. Heart racing, Etty prayed that any minute Trevor would appear. Surely God couldn’t be that cruel – to take both her husband and sister.

  Immobilised by fear, she couldn’t take her eyes off the burning house. Why had she let him go into the inferno? Because she needed Dorothy saved. The sisters had been through so much together, they could get through this too, couldn’t they? As flames billowed from the door, panic seized Etty. She couldn’t stand still a moment longer. She made to move but strong arms held her tight and wouldn’t let her go.

  ‘Look!’ a male voice shouted.

  A figure came running out of the door, head covered in a smoking jacket that burst into flames.

  Trevor.

  Frank rushed forward and grabbing Trevor, wrestled him to the ground, rolling him over to extinguish the flames.

  Etty’s eyes sought the door, but as flames leapt high into the acrid air, no one else came out of the raging inferno.

  She raced over to Trevor, kneeling beside him. In her distress, she noted his singed hair, the whites of his eyes turned pink, his red and blistered face.

  ‘Dorothy?’ she whispered.

  Shaking, he wheezed, ‘Flames in the kitchen… but could see in the Morrison shelter.’ He coughed and clutched his throat, ‘No one there.’

  The words filled her with hope. But Etty couldn’t bear to look at his burned skin or to think of the torture he must be going through, all because of her. As he struggled to breathe, she feared for his life. Yet her heart soared for her husband. She knew Trevor had risked his life not just for Dorothy, but because he knew how much her sister meant to his wife.

  Etty told him gently, ‘Don’t talk… just rest. I need you to get better.’

  ‘This man needs medical attention. Now!’ Frank yelled.

  Two burly men from the crowd came forward. ‘It’ll be quicker if we take him to the hospital ourselves.’

  They wrenched a door off its hinges from a damaged building and laid Trevor upon it.

  He looked up at Etty.

  ‘Stay…’ he managed to croak. ‘Go and find her.’

  Etty watched as the men made off with him up the street.

  ‘That’s a brave man.’ Frank stood at her side. ‘And lucky to be alive.’

  Hope surged through Etty but she didn’t know where to look or what to do next. Then it hit her. Of course! She knew exactly what Dorothy would do when the siren wailed. She would seek out Victoria.

  She took off up the street, choking from the smoke permeating the air and, passing a gap where Mrs Henderson’s house should have stood, she stared in dismay. The building was blown to smithereens. In her shocked state, Etty could only think of that immaculately kept front step.

  ‘Hinny, all I’ve left is what I stand up in,’ a voice from behind said. ‘But I owe me life to that sister of yours.’

  Etty turned and saw the dishevelled figure of Mrs Henderson. She wore a pair of men’s trousers and an army greatcoat was draped over her shoulders.

  ‘Dorothy was with you?’

  ‘Aye, she was that. You see, with me husband away, it’s up to me to look after his dad.’ Mrs Henderson’s pupils were big dark pools. ‘I took him on when I married my Jeff. He’s an invalid from the Great War. He’s a canny enough fella but the trouble is, he can’t walk far and that makes for hard work.’

  Etty’s patience running thin, she pleaded, ‘Where’s Dorothy? How did she help?’

  ‘When the siren went off, I couldn’t get the old fella in the shelter meself. Frantic, I raced to the front to knock upstairs. Your sister went shooting past and I asked if she would help. What a lass,’ she gave a fond smile. Warming to the woman, Etty remembered her earlier disapproval. It just went to show, she thought, you shouldn’t be quick to judge folk.

  ‘Jeff’s dad isn’t a big man, physically, and so we managed to carry him between us to the shelter. Dorothy wouldn’t leave it at that and insisted she help fetch his paraphernalia… books, pipe, medication, and so on. I did ask her to stay but she said she was in a dash to seek her little girl. Just after that, Jerry came over. If it hadn’t been for your lass, I would’ve still been in the house struggling with Jeff’s father.’ She grasped Etty’s hand. ‘I’m eternally grateful to your sister.’

  Etty, in a hurry to be away, broke free of her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henderson, about your flat.’

  The woman pulled a rueful face. ‘I had it just the way I wanted. I’ll have to start all over again.’

  If she hadn’t been so panicked, Etty would’ve quipped a clever remark.

  The street – with some of the houses vanished, others damaged beyond repair – was in total chaos. One house had its side blown off, so that you could see the exposed upstairs where a clock, miraculously, stood intact on the range mantelshelf, a picture of a bullfighter hanging drunkenly on the wall above.

  Hurrying on, Etty passed a team of rescue workers sifting through a pile of wreckage.

  ‘Oi! Where d’you think you’re going?’ A male voice startled her.

  A middle-aged bloke sporting a black moustache glared at her. ‘Stay back. These buildings are unsafe.’ To make a point he gestured to a house across the road where a chimney teetered precariously over the side of the roof.

  An older gentleman with an unlit pipe dangling from his mouth gave Mr Moustache an affronted stare.

  ‘Best to wait, hinny,’ he said to Etty, ‘till the demolition squad’s been and made the area safe.’ He pulled a long face. ‘You don’t want to be poking around here.’

  His eyes strayed to where three bodies, covered by blankets, lay on the cobbles.

  ‘And the injured,’ Etty asked, eyes glued to the blankets. ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Ferried away to the hospital,’ the man said. ‘If you’re looking for somebody… I’d try there first.’

  Etty’s guts turned over and she felt sick. She had to know. She moved forward.

  ‘Don’t, pet,’ the gentleman warned.

  She bent over the first body and reached out a hand.

  Please God, I promise I’ll talk to you every day. I’ll go to church on Sundays. Please, don’t let this be Dorothy.

  She drew back the blanket and, looking into the reposed face of an old woman, felt incredibly sad. It was difficult to believe that only hours before this woman had gone about her daily affairs. Etty shivered.

  The second body was the woman’s husband, a kindly man. It felt indecent, somehow, staring at him like this and she covered him up.

  She bent and pulled back the blanket from the third body. She stared into the ashen face of Dorothy.

  A cry
wrenched from her. Bending over, she hugged her stomach.

  Dorothy couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. Etty fell to her knees. She shook her sister to awaken her and then noticed her blood-soaked hair, the gash at her temple.

  An unbearable pain squeezed her chest. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she began to wipe away the blood.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Senses acute, she smelled stale tobacco.

  ‘Come away,’ a gentle voice said. ‘You can’t do anything here, lass. She’s gone.’

  Strong arms lifted her up. Etty fought them off. As she looked down at Dorothy’s lifeless form, her world tilted. This couldn’t be. A life without Dorothy was… inconceivable. A low guttural cry rose from deep within her.

  The hand pressed her shoulder again.

  Etty turned and looked into the weakened eyes of the elderly gentleman. ‘It’s my sister, Dorothy,’ she told him. ‘We’re a team. She can’t stay here… not on the cold cobbles. Would you help me please, to take her home?’

  Two days after the bombing, as Trevor stood at the front door, the overpowering reek of burnt-out houses still permeated Whale Street. He wondered if the stink would ever go away.

  The burns to his face and hands were still painful, especially when they were cleaned and his dressings changed, but he was a lucky fella, according to the specialist at the hospital. Trevor’s injuries were superficial and didn’t go deep, the bloke said, and with proper care and a good standard of hygiene, they’d be healed in a matter of weeks. But Trevor wondered about himself. Whenever he thought of his lungs burned with smoke and how narrowly he had escaped the ceiling falling down, he still got the shakes.

  Then there was the business with Etty. They were uneasy around each other, as if all that had gone on before was too big an obstacle to overcome. Etty was in mourning for her sister and for the time being, Trevor surmised, it was best he left things as they were. But despite all this he couldn’t help feeling a little ray of hope for their future.

  Officialdom had moved into Whale Street. A queue of folk waited in front of trestle tables for council officials to attend to them.