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

by Shirley Dickson

  As Trevor watched, an official, a rotund man with balding head and red agitated face, told the woman in front of him, ‘Mrs, it’s too dangerous to stay in your flat. The building is in jeopardy of falling down. It’s only a temporary measure. You’ll be allocated at the school for now.’

  The woman replied, ‘Says you. That flat’s been in me family for two generations. Once I go, I’ll never get back. I’ve seen it before. I’m staying put.’

  ‘Mrs. I’m only doing my job.’

  So, the argument rattled on.

  Meanwhile, gangs of workmen, some carrying hefty ladders and planks of wood, went about their business in the street. Folk, pushing homemade handcarts piled high with their belongings, went to goodness knows where, because no spare property was to be had – which was a pity, Trevor thought, because it would have saved his ma having to live in with them.

  Ma was discharged from the hospital with a broken arm. She had had a lucky escape, especially as her concussion hadn’t lasted long. She didn’t see it that way, though, and her complaining was purgatory. With no home till the staircase was fixed, she’d established herself in the back bedroom – in a put-you-up bed the Women’s Volunteer Service found for them – with the two bairns.

  Trevor didn’t fancy sleeping in the front bedroom, not with Dorothy lying in state and so he’d opted for the couch in the kitchen. Aye, he thought, it was one thing dealing with death at work but quite another when it affected his personal life.

  Trevor shivered. The games your mind played. He’d never tell another living soul but he’d swear he could feel Dorothy’s presence in the flat. It came over him at odd moments, mostly in the passageway when he was on his own, this sensation that Dorothy was behind him and looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t explain it and would never try. Trevor wanted the funeral over and done with this afternoon.

  His main concern was Etty, who was deeply affected by her sister’s death. She had an unhinged air about her and was obsessively cleaning every nook and cranny in their home. Soot brought down by the bombs lay like thick black snow over every surface in the kitchen and Etty had apparently sorted it out by the first night. Rooms were dusted and mats removed and beaten over a line in the lane like they were the source of all that was evil. The irony was, while some poor buggers had lost their homes, Trevor’s sparkled as though royalty was expected to call.

  Trevor worried that, with the eyes of the street upon them, his wife’s inappropriate behaviour at such a time would reflect on him. Appalled by this train of thought – Trevor realised he sounded like Ma talking. He’d finished for good with that outdated mode of thinking. He’d survived the fire and life was too short. If he hadn’t spoiled his chance, Trevor wanted to start over again with Etty.

  Coughing again, he held his throat. He loved her still, he realised, and always would. Jealous rage had eaten him up and he needed to apologise for some of the things he’d said.

  From within the house, he heard a baby crying. He heaved his shoulders. Trevor thought about how unlucky Victoria was losing both parents. Laurie Calvert had no relatives to take her in, his brothers served in the army and his mother was now permanently confined to a wheelchair. Trevor was concerned that the responsibility of bringing up the bairn would fall on Etty as she had enough to contend with. But Etty was touchy about the subject of Victoria and he thought it wisest to leave the matter alone for now.

  ‘I find it best to submerge myself in work,’ Mr Newman told Trevor, who sat on an upturned tea chest in the workshop.

  His head bent over a vice, the boss planed a slab of wood, ready for a coffin. ‘I tell you, lad,’ Mr Newman continued. ‘The plight of some folk could break your heart. Not only have they lost a loved one, but their home and possessions into the bargain.’ His features sagged and he looked every one of his fifty-eight years.

  Mrs Newman bustled in, dressed in a W.V.S. uniform.

  ‘Roland, dear,’ she said in her affected tone. ‘I can’t be doing without water, it still isn’t on.’ She sniffed, ‘I’m off servin’ in the mobile canteen.’

  ‘Serving anything tasty?’ Both because of rationing and having such a long lean frame, Trevor’s stomach was never full.

  Mrs Newman, stuck up trout, didn’t speak to lesser mortals such as him.

  ‘Ahem,’ Mr Newman gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Oh yes… it’s your sister-in-law’s funeral. If there’s anything we can do, let Mr Newman know.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I’ve left you a sandwich on the drainer, Roland.’

  She made a quick exit.

  The boss bent and examined the planed slab of wood, running his hand over it.

  ‘I’m stowed out with work,’ he told Trevor, ‘it’s a pity you can’t lend a hand.’ He looked down at Trevor’s bandaged hand and coloured when he realised his gaff. But he went on, ‘Two funerals in the morning.’

  Weariness overcame Trevor and he realised that maybe coming over the road was a bit too much, especially with Dorothy’s funeral this afternoon. No way could he miss that. He wouldn’t let Etty down.

  ‘Lad, I was just thinking.’ Trevor knew that forthright tone – this conversation was going to be awkward.

  ‘Will your wounds leave you scarred?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘On your… face.’ Mr Newman had the grace to look sheepish.

  ‘Why?’ Dumbfounded, Trevor asked.

  Then it dawned on him and he saw red. He was tired of folk messing him around. His interfering ma, the Newmans – who thought they were a cut above.

  Mr Newman persisted. ‘Maybe it’s best you work in the workshop for a time, till we––’

  ‘Where I won’t be seen, you mean.’

  ‘Now lad, don’t take it personally. I only meant––’

  ‘I know what you meant. Scars aren’t acceptable. I might scare people off and the business would suffer.’

  ‘Let’s be reasonable, Trevor, talk this through.’

  Weariness like he’d never known overcame Trevor. He stood up from the tea chest. ‘I’ll tell you what is reasonable: Mr Newman, you can stick your job.’

  The hurt of Dorothy’s death tainted Etty’s every thought, every action. It was all consuming. Etty wondered sometimes how much pain the heart could take.

  You must go on, the voice in her head said.

  All Dorothy’s personal possessions had perished in the fire. She didn’t own much jewellery; a pair of drop amethyst earrings she wore on special occasions, a silver bangle, and a string of pearls – a gift from Laurie on their wedding day. It was a pity about the pearls, they’d have made an ideal keepsake for Victoria but at least she would have her mother’s wedding ring. She made a mental note to tell Mr Newman to remove the ring from Dorothy’s finger before the funeral.

  Submerging baby clothes in a sink full of tepid water, she wondered if that was what her sister would want. Etty had no idea; they’d never discussed what to do in the event of either of their premature deaths.

  Mostly, Etty felt numb and since the day of the bombing, she couldn’t sit still. Even having Trevor’s mam to stay, infuriating though the woman was, proved a welcome distraction as it helped keep her busy and sane. She didn’t want to stop and think, feeling so bereft there were times she wanted to scream at the top of her voice. But what good would that do? Life without Dorothy was futile and she was powerless to stop the black despair that threatened to swamp her.

  Trevor tried to help but said all the wrong things. She ought to be thankful towards him for risking his life to save Dorothy’s, and she wanted to tell him so but feelings were a luxury she didn’t possess any more. She felt frozen.

  ‘Try and get some rest,’ he badgered. ‘You’ll wear yourself out, keeping a nightly vigil on Dorothy.’

  Etty’s mind kept flashing back to the moment when she had uncovered Dorothy’s face: the shock; the denial she was dead. Then came the panic, when Etty worked in slow motion. Since then, the realisation had hit and nothing wou
ld take away the pain, the injustice, of losing a sister as precious as hers. Overwhelmed, Etty wanted to curl up and howl like a wounded animal.

  ‘Stop fighting, and let time pass.’ Dorothy’s voice, like a salve, spoke in her mind.

  When Laurie died, all Dorothy wanted was to be with him and, perhaps, in some universal order, her wish had been granted. But no, Etty decided, Dorothy would never leave her baby, not even for Laurie.

  Thank God for May Robinson, who she could rely on. May promised to keep a vigil with Etty before the funeral.

  May had a knack of saying the right thing when needed. Everyone acted embarrassed around Etty, worried they might say the wrong thing, and so they avoided speaking at all. Which was hurtful when a simple ‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ would do. Not May though, who treated Etty as normal and spoke naturally.

  In this time of grief, Etty valued her friendship, grateful to her friend. She had tinkered with the idea of telling May about the affair with Billy. But that would be selfish, she realised, as she’d only be confessing for her own benefit – to be absolved of guilt. She had caused the lass enough suffering and heartache.

  As she wrung out the baby clothes, Etty checked her watch that lay on the wooden draining board.

  Two hours to go.

  The pair of them sat on the end of the bed, staring at Dorothy’s waxen face.

  Curtains were drawn. Candles stood in saucers on the mantelpiece and lit the room.

  ‘Will Dorothy be in a plot on her own at the cemetery?’ May asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you know if your family’s got a plot?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘Have you decided on hymns? Did Dorothy have a favourite?’

  ‘She liked “All things Bright and Beautiful”.’

  ‘Fancy… that’s mine as well.’ Pause. ‘Apart from the wound, there’s not another mark on Dorothy’s face, is there?’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it if there was. Her body was crushed, and her injuries are from the chest down.’

  They stared horrified at the white shroud that masked Dorothy’s body.

  May spoke again. ‘Why d’you think she was out on the street after the siren had gone?’

  ‘I reckon her one thought was to get up the street to be with Victoria. But she didn’t make it.’

  ‘I think that too.’

  After a pondering silence, Etty said, ‘I’m glad I told Mr Newman not to put lipstick on her.’

  ‘Is that what undertakers do?’

  ‘Yes. To make people look more… natural. Trevor says sometimes they apply rouge, too.’

  ‘I agree, I wouldn’t want that.’ May shook her head. ‘She just looks asleep, doesn’t she?’

  Etty didn’t think so. Her sister’s body now seemed a shell with nobody there.

  ‘I still can’t take it in,’ May cried. ‘What will we do without her?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Etty’s voice cracked.

  ‘Dorothy dying has taught me one thing,’ May’s chin trembled. ‘Life’s short. I’m ganna get me job back at the factory where I was happiest… even though tongues might still wag about the split with Billy.’

  Despite her grief, Etty felt a jolt of culpability. Perhaps if she’d never met Billy, the couple would still be engaged.

  Concerned for her friend, she said, ‘Don’t do anything hasty.’

  May’s expression, as she eyed the coffin, became determined. ‘Dorothy was a fighter and so am I going to be.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  They talked for a time about Dorothy, and it was good to speak of her in the present tense. Then, the floorboards outside the bedroom door creaked.

  Someone was listening.

  ‘It’s unnatural, I tell you,’ Nellie’s wheezy voice whispered. ‘Them two in there talking to the deceased.’

  ‘There’s no right and wrong, Ma… leave things be.’

  ‘They’re both doolally if you ask me.’

  ‘Etty,’ Trevor’s authoritative voice boomed. ‘It’s time. Bertha Cuthbertson’s here to look after the girls. Mr Newman will arrive soon.’

  ‘My legs have turned to jelly,’ Etty told May.

  ‘Don’t worry, Trevor will hold on to you.’

  Maybe they both were doolally, Etty thought, but if that’s what it took to keep strong enough to bury Dorothy in her final resting place – then so be it.

  27

  Whenever she thought of Dorothy’s funeral afterwards, Etty could only remember it in befuddled snatches. How, as the coffin was carried out of the house, the sun disappeared behind a black cloud. Mr Newman dressed in a top hat and a black suit, walking in front of the funeral cortege; wielding a cane at the traffic, keeping it at a snail’s pace. Men doffing their caps as the car carrying Dorothy passed by. The packed pews at the church and how, as the coffin was carried in, Etty’s legs buckled beneath her and she clung on to Trevor’s arm for support.

  Etty’s memory of the cemetery was equally selective. Cars slowly passing through tall wrought iron gates, a queue following behind. Umbrellas, like clusters of black mushrooms at the graveside, and the fragrant smell of floral bouquets.

  Etty’s everlasting memory of that time was when her beloved sister’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

  Back home, although it was a mild day, Etty’s extremities were icy cold and she couldn’t get warm. Bertha appeared with a steaming cup of tea, May at her side. ‘How did it go?’ Bertha’s good-natured face was stricken with compassion.

  ‘St Michael’s was heaving.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ May said. ‘Dorothy touched peoples’ lives.’

  The emotion of the day caught up with Etty, and she couldn’t reply.

  ‘What you need is a glass of sherry to fortify yerself.’

  She bustled away, returning with a stemmed glass of brown liquid in her hand.

  ‘This’ll help take the raw edges away.’

  Sipping the sweet liquid, Etty gazed around the room. She knew only a few of the people who had come back to the flat to pay their respects. Dressed head to toe in black, they stood in huddles reminiscing, no doubt, about Dorothy. And though distanced from the scene, she felt a sense of pride that her sister was so well thought of.

  As she watched on, a thought disturbed her. What if it were true, that loved ones on the other side were there to greet you? Dorothy would expect to see Mam and she would then know that her sister had told a lie.

  Silly girl, I was strong enough to hear the facts. Dorothy’s voice again.

  Guilt gnawed away at her. Etty now knew this to be true. She knew they could have faced the truth together.

  Mam!

  Her sister deserved better but if the afterlife were real then Dorothy would be there alongside Laurie. The thought was comforting, and Etty gave a teary smile.

  Nellie, apparently, had taken it upon herself to be the family spokesperson. Her arm in a plaster cast, she was in her element as she mingled with the company.

  How good of you to come. Yes, the family are bearing up… in these days of war you have to. A big sigh; Dorothy will be a big miss to us all.

  Etty straightened her spine and held her head high. These people were kind enough to visit her home and give their condolences; the least she could do was pull herself together and mingle with them.

  In turn, she spoke with Mrs Henderson, Dorothy’s workmates and others, who Etty had never clapped eyes on before.

  May hovered at her side, ready to interfere if things got too much for her.

  Etty moved on to speak with the Newmans.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for such a dignified funeral.’

  Mr Newman looked a little apprehensive. ‘It’s good of you to say so, my dear.’ He nodded to his wife, who stood with a glass of sherry in one hand and a plateful of sandwiches in the other. Her eyes glazed, she appeared bored.

  ‘If there’s anything we can do then don’t hesitate to ask.’
r />   Etty, too choked to speak, couldn’t handle kindness. Mr Newman appeared to understand and patted her hand.

  ‘I can’t believe all this grub.’ Ramona Newman’s shrill voice made Etty cringe. She wore a black pillbox hat with a white ostrich feather that wafted, ludicrously, above her nose.

  Etty glanced at the table, laden with sandwiches, meat pies, and homemade cakes. The funeral and wake had been arranged as if by magic. She looked across the room to Bertha who winked conspiratorially. During this war, folk had their own troubles but they still found time to help each other and, on this occasion, Etty was the receiver of their generosity. Bad times brought the best out in people, she reflected. Especially for someone as loved as her dear older sister.

  Mr Newman, giving his wife a warning eye, gulped the last of his sherry. ‘Regrettably, we can’t stay long.’

  ‘It was good of you to come at all,’ Etty said mechanically.

  Nellie made her way over to join them. ‘A word, Mr Newman.’

  While Trevor talked to the woman who ran the corner shop over the road, he noticed Ma making for the Newmans. He recognised that conniving look in her eyes.

  Tuckered out, all he wanted was an empty house, a comfortable chair to nod off in, and his injuries to stop hurting.

  He made his excuses and shambled over to where his mother held court.

  ‘What a week, eh, Mr Newman,’ he heard her say. ‘You must be exhausted with all those poor souls you’ve had to bury.’

  Taken aback, Mr Newman ran a forefinger around his shirt collar. ‘Ahem. It’s my job, Mrs Milne… my vocation in life.’

  ‘Here you are, son,’ Ma exclaimed when she saw him. ‘I was just about to tell Mr Newman here… when you’re back to full strength you’ll be an asset to the firm. Folk like a hero.’

  The two men eyed each other.

  Ma nudged the boss’s arm. ‘In my opinion, he’s wasted working down the pit.’

  There was an awkward silence. Etty pleaded with her eyes to Trevor to make his Ma stop.