The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Shirley Dickson

  Wearily, she climbed the stairs to the next landing. Life was all chance, she thought, depending on who your parents were, their station in life. She thought of her mam, her lined and care-worn face, and with a shock Sandra realised that her mother would’ve only been a few years older than she was now when she died.

  If Mam and Dad had lived in better circumstances, Dad might have stayed healthier and not had as many chesty colds. Their building had been damp and black mould grew on the walls of their flat.

  ‘Aye, yer old man might be an invalid, but he’s good at some things,’ Sandra had heard a neighbour say as she patted Mam’s fat belly. Too young to understand at the time, Sandra knew now what the neighbour was implying. Mam had been expecting her third bairn.

  Sandra paused on the second landing. She thought of Mam skivvying away as a washerwoman to put food on the table. If her mam hadn’t been so bone-weary maybe she and the baby she was carrying might have survived.

  As she stood on the landing, fond memories of her parents flitting through her mind’s eye, Sandra noticed the light shining from under Duncan’s door. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  She thought again of poor Molly, and how Duncan had been the cause of her getting the sack. Molly Hadden had arrived to work as scullery maid in the winter of ’38. She was seventeen, with blonde curly hair and enormous blue, innocent eyes. She was pretty and a delight to work with as she was full of light-hearted banter. Though she was younger, Molly soon became Sandra’s mate.

  ‘These posh folks get on me nelly. They think because I’m a skivvy I’m ignorant but I’ve had good schooling. I can read and write and me best subject at school was history,’ she told Sandra. ‘If I had me way, I’d still be hairdressing.’

  Molly was washing dinner dishes in the scullery sink and Sandra had brought another load through on a tray.

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  Molly turned, and heaved a heavy, regretful sigh. ‘Long story but the gist is me da lost his job and me mam saw an ad for a scullery maid in the Gazette. So, in her wisdom’ – she raised her eyes heavenward – ‘she said I should apply as I was getting a pittance from the woman I worked for at the hairdresser’s. Besides, it would be one less mouth to feed at home.’ She made an affronted face. ‘I think she wanted shot of us.’

  Sandra knew this couldn’t be true because Molly’s family were close. She was the eldest of four and was always talking with affection about her parents and younger siblings and she went home at every opportunity she got.

  ‘So here I am, a dogsbody. But one day I’m going to own me own hairdressing business.’

  Sandra smiled. With her enthusiasm for life and her work ethic, the young scullery maid probably would achieve her ambition. And the desire to make something of her life had begun to take root in Sandra too.

  Then, Sandra recalled, Molly had changed, had become pale and withdrawn, not like herself at all. At first, Sandra had wondered if she was missing home, but when she brought the subject up, Molly shook her head.

  ‘It’s nothing, I’ve just… got the blues.’

  Which was ridiculous because Molly was such a cheerful soul.

  Time wore on and when Molly didn’t improve and Sandra could stand her reticence no longer, she confronted her one day as she was disposing of rubbish in the bin and Molly was hanging out the washing.

  ‘Molly, I’m concerned. What’s up with you?’

  Molly’s body tensed. ‘Nothing,’ was the gruff reply.

  ‘You know I can keep secrets. Come on, spit it out. Have you quarrelled with your family?’ Molly hardly visited with them any more; she didn’t go anywhere.

  The lass turned towards Sandra. She shook her head in a helpless fashion. ‘You can’t do nothing. Nobody can.’

  No amount of coaxing would make her speak out.

  ‘Leave me alone. There’ll be trouble if I say anything.’

  Sandra remembered that, to her dismay, Molly had burst into tears.

  Sandra had been at a loss to know what to do. Being brought up in an orphanage had left its mark. She couldn’t give Molly a hug as she found physical contact uncomfortable. If Molly wouldn’t share her problem then how could she help solve it?

  Sandra found out what Molly’s predicament was late one night in June when she couldn’t get to sleep in her hot, stuffy attic bedroom. Her tired and anxious mind was too active. Had she locked the front door? Her imagination took over. What if a burglar got in the house and stole all the silver? The thought nagged until Sandra could stand it no longer. She would have to check.

  She flung back the sheet and picked up the saucer that stood on a chair beside the bed. She lit the candle with a match.

  Pattering down the three flights of stairs barefoot, she moved along the passageway and, opening the inner hall door, saw the bolt on the front door was firmly locked.

  Sandra knew it but she felt better for having checked. On the return journey up the stairs, she looked over the banister rail to the giddy view below. She kept to the side as the stair boards in the middle squeaked.

  It was near the top landing where the carpet stopped that Sandra thought she heard a noise. It came from the attic landing. She looked up. A door squeaked open and the silhouette of a figure stood at Molly’s bedroom door. Sandra held up the saucer. By the light of the candle’s flame she recognised the frame of Duncan Kirton in the doorway. He looked down at her, black eyes glittering in the shadowy light.

  Sandra froze.

  He gave an indifferent shrug and moved into the bedroom.

  The saucer in her hand shaking, Sandra ran back to her room.

  The next morning, when the two of them were in the scullery, Sandra had admitted what she’d seen the night before. Molly broke down. ‘I can’t take it any more.’

  Molly told Sandra of her distressing situation. ‘It was last time Mr Duncan came home from university. He started flirting with us. He told us to call him Duncan and that he thought I was beautiful. Then he kissed us in the scullery and daft fool that I am I thought he was really interested in us. Me… a scullery maid… what was I thinking of?’ Molly’s distraught eyes searched Sandra’s. ‘Then one night I woke up to the bedroom door handle rattling as if someone was coming in.’

  Sandra shivered. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was scared and yelled to ask who it was. Duncan’s voice hissed through the doorway for me to shut up because I’d wake the household. Then I heard footsteps retreat down the stairway.’ Molly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘He went back to university next day but not before he whispered that I’d better not play so hard to get next time.’

  ‘Oh, Molly, how dreadful. No wonder you’ve been a nervous wreck all this time.’ The urge to fling her arms around the young maid’s thin shoulders was strong.

  ‘I knew what Duncan was after and I couldn’t sleep with the fear because I knew he wouldn’t give up until he got what he wanted. I didn’t dare go home because me mam would know something was up. Then I know I’d blab and say what’s wrong. If me da finds out there’ll be ructions.’

  ‘You must have been sick with worry when you heard he was coming home.’

  ‘I was. Then, when nothing happened, I started to breathe easy until—’

  ‘Last night,’ Sandra finished for her.

  ‘I woke up and Duncan was on me bed,’ Molly continued. ‘I tried to yell but he covered me mouth. I bit his hand hard as I could. He got off me then and kneeled on the bed. Then I remembered what me da told us and drew me knee up and kicked Duncan hard in the groin.’ She gave a grin. ‘It did the trick. He cried out in pain and called me a bitch. Blood dripping from where I clawed him, he hobbled bent over from me room. But he shouted that if I said anything it would cost us me job.’

  She visibly shuddered. ‘I swear he’ll be back to get his revenge… and next time he’ll make sure he has… his way.’

  They had both looked at each other. Duncan Kirton always got his own way.

  Sa
ndra was naïve about sex matters as she’d had no mam to tell her. The subject was never broached at the orphanage. In her mind it was something sacred you kept for the love of your life – not someone like Duncan Kirton.

  Sandra didn’t know what to say to help Molly’s suffering. ‘You could leave,’ was the only thing she could think of. ‘You’ve got a home and family that care.’

  Molly’s eyes widened in horror. ‘I can’t lose me job. Mam can’t manage as it is. She needs the bit of money I earn to help with the bairns. And me da never gets permanent work any more at the yards.’

  Sandra told Molly, ‘This would never happen if us staff were given keys to lock our rooms.’

  ‘Mrs Kirton says it’s for our own safety in case there’s a fire. But if you ask me it’s ’cos she checks to see if we’ve pinched anything. I swear sometimes someone’s been in me room rifling.’ She squared her shoulders determinedly. ‘But you’ve given us cause for thought. I’m going to ask Mrs Kirton if I can have a key to lock me bedroom door.’

  For the rest of that day Molly’s predicament whirled in Sandra’s mind. As she washed the grimy walls, covered in soot – which always found its way in through the pantry grille – from the chimneys, Sandra wondered what would happen. Surely Mrs Kirton would ask Molly the reason why she wanted a key? She would be outraged at Molly’s impertinence. Or maybe, by some miracle, Mrs Kirton would realise the staff needed privacy, that they weren’t merely servants at her beck and call.

  When nightfall came and still she hadn’t clapped eyes on Molly, Sandra feared the worst. The next morning Mrs Kirton announced in the kitchen that Sandra was taking over the role of scullery maid as well as her own.

  No explanation for Molly’s disappearance was ever given.

  When Duncan finished university and began living at home, working for Carstairs and Kirton for a while, Sandra was both wary and aloof with him. She could never forgive him for what had happened to poor Molly. He must have guessed she knew something because he kept giving her furtive looks. She remained steadfastly aloof.

  At the time he had a girlfriend to keep him out of mischief. A willowy lass who had all her buttons on and spoke with a refined English accent. But no lass deserved Duncan Kirton.

  Sandra had a gnawing feeling of guilt that she should have done more to help the young scullery maid and that by not speaking out she’d been a coward. Sandra vowed it had taught her a lesson. She would never be so reticent in such a situation again, even if it meant losing her job. She needed to be able to look at herself in the mirror.

  She often thought of Molly and hoped the lass had found another job, and her family hadn’t suffered.

  One morning, a letter arrived for Sandra. Mrs Kirton, with a look that said how dare the housemaid have the audacity to receive letters, handed the envelope to Sandra as she served breakfast. Sandra was mystified. She never received post apart from Alf’s letters from his base, and those were delivered to Mrs Goodwin’s house. She put the letter in her apron pocket for Mrs Goodwin to read out later.

  When the dishes were washed and they sat at the table having a cup of tea, Mrs Goodwin, reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, held the letter at arm’s length.

  ‘It’s from Molly. A nice lassie. I often wondered why she left, she seemed so settled here.’ Cook cleared her throat and began.

  Just to let you know you haven’t to worry about me. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. At first, all I wanted was to put Duncan and the Curtain…

  Mrs Goodwin looked up and guffawed, ‘Bless the lass, she’s spelt it as in “curtain” at the window.’

  …household out of my mind. Then life just rolled on as it does. But I did think of you often and wondered how you’re getting on. Then it occurred to me recently I was being daft, and I should just write and maybe you’d find someone to read my letter to you. So, here’s hoping.

  That day when I told Mrs Curtain that I wanted a key for the bedroom. She asked what I wanted to hide. Me and my big mouth. I blurted that it wasn’t that but I was nervous somebody might get into me room.

  I knew I was in trouble. She asked who did I think would want to enter a scullery maid’s bedroom? I think she knew because she went purple in the face. I just mumbled that somebody might.

  Before I could say ‘Bob’s your uncle’ I was sacked and shown the door.

  Mam was great when I told her everything. She said we’d manage but I hadn’t to tell anybody, especially Da, because if he found out he’d give Duncan Curtain the hammering he deserved. The good news is I’m now working in a clothes factory making uniforms and I’ve never been richer or happier. So, it’s an ill will that does nobody any good. As I say you don’t have to worry about me.

  Hope Duncan Curtain rots in hell!!!

  Take care of yourself,

  Your good friend

  Molly xx

  Mrs Goodwin removed her spectacles and pulled a scathing face. ‘What’s this about Duncan Kirton?’

  Swearing Cook to secrecy, Sandra told her the truth of the matter.

  Mrs Goodwin had pursed her lips. ‘I knew that lad was a bad ’un. He’s got shifty eyes. If he was a son o’ mine I’d knock him senseless. Poor lass, getting the heave-ho through no fault of her own. Shame on Mrs Kirton.’ She folded the letter and handed it over to Sandra. A look of concern in her eyes, she said, ‘You watch yerself, lass. Give us a shout if needs be.’

  Her throat tight, Sandra gave a grateful nod. She’d never had anyone to rely on before. Only Alf, but as his big sister her job was to keep an eye out for him.

  Now, here Sandra was standing on the landing, light creeping from beneath Duncan Kirton’s door. He was home and pacing around inside his bedroom.

  She could hear him.

  Since the war started, he’d been away most of the time. In those early days he’d seen action in Dunkirk where he was rescued from the beaches by one of the brave men who crossed the channel in little boats. On his return home he was on Home Service stationed somewhere in Kent.

  This year he’d only been home on leave once and that was only for a night. Sandra had managed to keep out of his way.

  This time, though, Duncan was acting differently. She was aware of his dark eyes watching her too intently. He appeared troubled in some way. Sandra shivered. Maybe these were only hysterical imaginings. But this was Duncan Kirton, she reminded herself. Sandra didn’t trust him.

  As she gazed at his door she saw the door handle turn. Fear clutching her throat, by the light of the flickering candle Sandra took the stairs two at a time to the attic bedroom. She closed the door and stood with her back leaning against it. She blew out the candle and, clicking on the light, saw the familiar scene. The slim bed, rickety chest of drawers, wooden chair. The sloped ceiling, sash window that despite being covered with a thick blackout curtain let in the cold night air. At the foot of the bed, her few clothes hung on string that crossed the room.

  Her room, and security for the past ten years.

  Not any more.

  Sandra lifted the bedside rug from the floor and placed it behind the door. Then, taking hold of the wooden chair, she wedged its arched back beneath the door handle – something she’d seen in a film at the cinema. With a trembling hand, she switched off the light and climbed back into bed.

  A strong wind outside buffeted the window and Sandra, staring into the darkness, burrowed down in the chilly bed. Though tired, she couldn’t sleep and it felt like an eternity before her eyes started to droop. Then a noise alerted her and she was wide awake.

  The bedroom door handle was rattling. Sandra sat bolt upright.

  Someone was trying to get in and Sandra knew who it was. Pulling the blanket up to her neck, she lay shaking in the bed.

  Please, God, don’t let Duncan get in.

  The door handle rattled again.

  Please keep me safe.

  The rattling went on longer this time, then there was a sound as if someone had heaved against the doo
r.

  I’ll do anything.

  The noise stopped. The silence in the room was deafening.

  After a time, the enormity of what might have happened overwhelmed Sandra. She sagged with relief. She wasn’t safe here any more, but unlike Molly, who had family, Sandra had nowhere to go. A tidal wave of nervous anxiety washed over her and she was frozen with terror.

  Afterwards she’d swear she never slept but she must have dozed, for the noise from outside brought Sandra back to sleepy consciousness.

  The sound of the air raid siren.

  4

  Galvanised into action, Sandra leapt from the bed and, switching on the light, shrugged on her coat and slipped her cold feet into her shoes.

  She heard aeroplanes, like a swarm of bees, droning in the distance. They sounded as if they were coming closer. As Jerry planes roared overhead, the noise of guns blazed from the ground. There was a descending scream as a bomb plummeted to the earth. A moment’s silence when the house appeared to shudder, then a terrific explosion that cast powdery dust in the air. Sandra, momentarily frozen to the spot, could taste it.

  Please, God, don’t let this house be hit.

  She removed the chair and opened the door. She clicked the switch on the wall and mercifully harsh yellow light flooded the now dust-ridden staircase. Sandra’s intention was to make her way down to the garage shelter in the back yard that had two layers of concrete to reinforce it and had been passed by a council man’s inspection.

  As the roar of the first wave of bombers faded into the distance, Sandra prayed that would be the end of the raid – though she doubted it.

  Her legs trembling, she reached the second landing and was just about to descend the next flight of stairs when someone grabbed her by the arm from behind. Sandra let out a scream. She pulled away with such force that it took all her agility to stop herself toppling down the stairs. Strong hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her backwards. The stench of alcohol wafted up Sandra’s nostrils.