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

by Shirley Dickson

  Duncan Kirton.

  He dragged her, kicking and screaming, through his bedroom doorway, a wave of raiders thundering overhead drowning out the noise. He heaved her onto the double bed and, straddling her, pinned her down with the force of his body. He ripped her coat open.

  Sandra, sitting up, pummelled him with her hands. With a strength she never imagined Duncan could possess he took her wrists in his hands and with the mass of his body pinned her down. Suffocated, she felt helpless. Duncan let go with one hand and, undoing the buttons of his trousers, jerked them down. As planes shrieked overhead and bombs whistled and exploded on the ground, Sandra willed the house to be bombed; she’d rather die than face this.

  A picture of Molly came to mind and Sandra’s thoughts blazed: I will not allow this to happen. With all her might she writhed, kicked and clawed at Duncan. With brute strength, he took her hands in his and restrained them above her head. His face bent close to hers so that she could smell the stench of his breath, and she saw his intentions in his dark, resolute eyes.

  Realising her fate, Sandra’s mind raged with fury. Molly had kicked him in the groin but Sandra was trapped and helpless to do anything. She wouldn’t let Duncan have the satisfaction of putting her through torment. If she could distance her mind then he wouldn’t win. Sandra focussed on something she held dear, something that no one, not even Duncan Kirton could interfere with. Her memories. As Duncan wrenched up her nightdress, she willed her mind to detach from the present situation and be transported to a happier place, to her beloved family when she was young and still lived at home. Dad was cobbling shoes and Mam was handing him a cup of…

  At that moment the light switched on, blinding Sandra.

  A figure stood in the doorway. A figure that made Duncan, when he looked up, falter, then release her hands. He slid from the bed.

  Sandra turned her head. She looked into the horrified, grey eyes of Mrs Kirton. Even in her distress, Sandra couldn’t get over the sight of her. Gone was the immaculate lady of the house. Mrs Kirton wore a full-length dressing gown and her hair, done up in iron curlers, was covered with a hair net, her feet ensconced in fur-lined slippers. Her lips pursed, Mrs Kirton stretched out an arm and pointed first to Duncan and then to the door.

  Duncan pulled up his trousers and, fastening the buttons, walked to the door and disappeared.

  Somewhere in Sandra’s dream-like mind she registered that planes were thundering over the rooftops, as bombs fell and guns blazed. Then came a shrieking noise. Automatically she held her breath. For a moment the room went deathly still, then the walls trembled – and everything went black.

  The next morning Sandra woke up on the chaise longue in the sitting room with Mrs Goodwin kneeling on the floor beside her. Sandra’s head hurt like blazes.

  ‘Here, lass, get this down you.’ Mrs Goodwin passed her a cup of tea she held in her hand. ‘They say you were out for the count for a while. If I’d been there, I’d have given yi’ smellin’ salts. But the main thing is, lass, you survived all the masonry falling down on yi’. Though you’ll be sore for a while.’ She nodded to the bruising on Sandra’s hands and arms below the sleeves of her nightdress. ‘If you ask me the Kirtons want their heads examining. Anyone with common sense would’ve taken you to the infirmary to be checked out.’

  Sandra took a sip of the sickly tea. ‘What happened? Did I pass out?’ She could only remember bits of the night: Duncan on top of her, Mrs Kirton in the doorway. Why was she there? Had she heard Sandra scream?

  She stared into the space in front as the scene played in her mind. Shadows on the wall, the stink of alcohol. The feel of it on her skin, harder, bigger than Sandra had ever imagined.

  She began to shake and Mrs Goodwin took the cup of tea out of her hand. ‘What is it, lass?’

  Sandra swam back to reality. Mrs Goodwin’s kind face looked at her in concern and the sight made Sandra well up. Too overwrought to speak, she shook her head.

  ‘It’s that lad, isn’t? I wondered what you were doin’ in his room…’

  Sandra tensed. She felt guilty somehow, as if what had happened was her fault.

  ‘The bugger tried it on, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word tore from Sandra. ‘But he didn’t succeed.’

  She told Cook how Mrs Kirton had come into the room. ‘I’ve been thinking, maybe she was checking to see if Duncan had made it safely out of the house.’

  Mrs Goodwin shook her head in disgust. ‘Thank God she did. I hope that bugger has been given his marching orders. But I doubt it. Though there was quite a rumpus this morning.’

  ‘What was the rumpus about?’

  Mrs Goodwin paused while she collected her thoughts. ‘Her ladyship and Duncan were upstairs in her bedroom. I happened to be getting some laundry from the cupboard.’ She pulled a mock innocent face. ‘Mrs Kirton was going hammer and tongs at Duncan. Then he rushed out of the room – nearly knocking me over, mind you – and hurtled down the stairs and out of the house. Thing is, he didn’t take his duffel bag or his coat.’ She sniffed. ‘Mark my words, he’ll be back and all will be forgiven.’

  ‘D’you think so?’ Sandra heard the unease in her voice.

  Mrs Goodwin smiled, reassuringly. ‘Rest assured, hinny, his mam will keep a close eye on him. She won’t want a hint of disgrace, especially about her precious son and a housemaid.’

  Sandra fervently hoped Cook was right. Sandra didn’t feel strong enough yet to make any big decisions about what she should do about her plight.

  Mrs Goodwin went on, ‘Mr Kirton told me about the blast while I made his breakfast. He’s not a bad sort when his wife isn’t about.’ She made a knowing face. ‘Typical! He diddled off to work as usual. I think he knew there was going to be trouble. He turns a blind eye if you ask me. Anyway, a bomb hit the house next door and it seems the after-blast caused the roof and part of Duncan’s bedroom ceiling to collapse. You’re a lucky lass, escaping with such little injury. You could have been killed.’

  Sandra remembered wishing that would happen as Duncan held her down. She shivered.

  ‘Did Mr Kirton carry me downstairs?’ The man was puny and thin.

  ‘No, hinny, the warden turned up and a fireman.’ She bristled. ‘I hope Duncan Kirton doesn’t show up while I’m here. It’ll be hard to keep me mouth shut. The rotter.’

  Mrs Goodwin handed her the cup back and Sandra took a sip of the sweet tea. ‘Is there much other damage upstairs?’

  ‘The top landing is a mess with rubble. Your room too. And apart from the two bedroom windows at the front of the house being blown out, that’s the lot.’

  Mrs Goodwin moved towards Sandra and examined her face. ‘That’s a right shiner on your brow and your eye’s gone black and blue. You’ve had a shock, lass. I’d take some time off if I was you.’

  ‘It’s not up to you, Cook.’ Mrs Kirton’s shrill voice spoke from the doorway. Dressed in a velvet pleated skirt and pristine white blouse, her hair coiffed to perfection, she showed no sign of being affected by the night’s drama. She pinned Mrs Goodwin with a stare. ‘Cook, I’ll take breakfast in the dining room. Perhaps a slice of bread and jam.’ Her eyes wandered to Sandra. ‘You, girl, can get dressed in your uniform.’

  Mrs Goodwin struggled to stand up.

  Sandra, staring at Mrs Kirton, saw only haughty coldness in her glare. No apologies for the suffering caused by her son, or concern over how she was faring after part of the ceiling had fallen on top of her.

  Sandra stood up from the chaise longue, her head held high. ‘I’m not ready to continue work after… what happened to me. I feel shaky and fragile.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Mrs Kirton appeared to double take. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, girl. Get changed at once.’

  ‘Maybe, Mrs Kirton, it would be best—’ Mrs Goodwin began but Mrs Kirton raised a hand and stopped her.

  ‘Enough, Cook! I know what’s best in this household.’

  All the years of being submissive
in the orphanage under the rule of the mistress, and now another tyrant lording it over her, Sandra saw red. It was high time she stood up for herself.

  ‘I know what’s best for me, Mrs Kirton. I need to rest for a while.’

  Mrs Kirton, infuriated, spluttered, ‘I… think, young lady… you should pack your bag. You are no longer employed in this house.’

  There was a stunned silence. But Sandra couldn’t back down now.

  Cook said, ‘But Mrs Kirton, she has nowhere—’

  ‘The girl should have thought of that before she answered in such an impudent manner.’ She turned to Sandra. ‘After you’ve packed meet me in the hallway. I want you out of the house at once.’ She swung on her heel and was gone.

  ‘Ahh! lass, I feel bad about this, it’s my fault for encouraging yi’ to take time off.’

  ‘No. I was standing up for what was right. I was nearly raped by her son. Then I was nearly killed. The woman has no morals or compassion.’

  Mrs Goodwin shook her head despairingly. ‘In my opinion this is what her ladyship has wanted all along. It suits her to have you out of the house, out of the sights of her precious son. What’s the bet the next housemaid is as old at the hills?’

  Despite the graveness of the situation the pair of them laughed.

  Then, as reality hit, Sandra’s newfound bravado faltered. She’d been sacked. From now on she’d have to make her own way in the world.

  Sandra, carrying a small brown suitcase packed with few belongings and a box that held a gas mask, had her winter coat draped over a forearm. Most of her clothes on the line weren’t worth salvaging but she found a skirt and blouse that would do until she manged to wash them through. She closed her mind to when that might be.

  It was true, she wasn’t as fit and well as she imagined. As she descended the stairs, legs wobbly, head aching, left eye still in pain, all she wanted was to lie someplace in the peace and quiet.

  But Sandra wouldn’t beg, she decided. She made her way to the hallway, and, looking at Mrs Kirton’s unyielding face, Sandra knew with certainty that even if she had wanted to it wouldn’t have done her any good.

  Mrs Kirton held out a brown envelope that rattled with money. ‘Your employment here is terminated.’ She drew herself up but didn’t meet Sandra’s gaze. ‘My son tells me you led him on—’

  ‘Pardon me? Duncan told you that?’

  ‘It would pay you to remember, girl’ – there was real menace in Mrs Kirton’s tone – ‘Mr Kirton is a solicitor. If you tittle-tattle about any of the goings on in this house it will be you who will be disgraced. If you understand my meaning.’ She moved towards the front door and opened it. ‘Shame on you, girl.’

  ‘I never—’

  ‘You will leave the property now.’

  Again, Sandra felt a cold shiver of fear. She stepped over the threshold, and the door slammed behind her.

  What had she done?

  She had nothing; no place to live and no one to turn to. Numb with shock, she stood at the top of the five stone steps. All she could think was that the front steps were scruffy and needed scrubbing and she’d left the sheets on the kitchen pulley.

  But none of this was her problem any more.

  From this high vista, Sandra looked out over the stretch of lacklustre grass to the road and the sea beyond, where a fishing boat made its way over harbour waters. It was raining, she realised. A large dog barked as it bounded over the sodden grass, seagulls squawked as they soared and swooped like miniature aeroplanes overhead. She must move on, but where to?

  She moved down the steps, turned right for no other reason than the pavement ran downhill. There was an acrid smell in the air. She looked around. Houses were without windowpanes and piles of broken glass and debris were heaped on the ground. A man wearing a cap and boiler suit stared out of a broken window. He smiled and gave her a thumbs up as if to say he was glad to be alive. That was the British way, Sandra thought. The enemy can take our homes but not our pride.

  She must buck up. All she’d lost was her job – and the roof over her head, the voice of insecurity told her. She was a good-for-nothing maid without a reference. Who, in their right mind, would employ her?

  Sandra squared her shoulders. She remembered Mrs Goodwin’s words that she wasn’t dumb. She couldn’t afford self-pity, she told herself sternly, she must find a job and somewhere to sleep tonight. But despair, as ever, won, and Sandra’s spirits plummeted. An impossible task, the doubting voice in her head told her.

  Sandra continued to the end of the block and, looking along the street where broken chimney pots looked ready to topple, she saw the top floor of a house which was a burnt-out shell. People were milling around looking shocked as they tried to take in the damage. A mobile canteen was parked at the far end of the street where WVS women dressed in grey-green uniforms handed out tea to the workers.

  A movement at the lane end a few yards away caught Sandra’s eye and she was surprised to see Mrs Goodwin’s large frame, apron flapping in the wind, hurrying towards her.

  ‘Eee, lass, I’m glad I’ve caught yi’. That bitch had no right to do what she did. I don’t know’ – she looked scandalised – ‘treating folk like that. It’s a disgrace.’ She pressed a large metal door key in Sandra’s hand. ‘Here, take this, lass. It’s for me front door. Make yourself at home till I get back from work and then we’ll figure something out.’ She gave a warm smile that made her plump cheeks rise and creased her eyes into a slant.

  Without another word she turned and hurried back along the street.

  Making her way to Mrs Goodwin’s two-bedroomed flat, Sandra walked past the town hall along the busy high street towards the Westoe bridges. She noticed some of the of the shops had sandbags stacked against the windows. Thinking of bombs led her to remember the raiders last night, but not wanting to dwell on the incidents that followed, Sandra’s train of thought diverted to Alf flying in bombers.

  Automatically, she fingered the necklace she always wore beneath her clothes, lingering on its round stainless-steel identity disc with her name inscribed on it. Dad had given one to each of his children when he left them at the orphanage.

  With sunken cheeks and grey face, he’d told them, ‘I’m sorry, kiddies, for what I’m doing. I hope when you’re older you’ll understand and forgive us. Be good and make your mother proud.’

  Months later, the mistress of the orphanage had sent for Sandra and Alf. Sandra wondered what they’d done.

  ‘I’ve been informed,’ she told the two children, ‘that your father’s heart gave out and he’s passed away.’

  ‘Passed where to?’ Little Alf wanted to know.

  ‘Died.’ The mistress’s tone was without a shred of sympathy. ‘Which means the two of you are orphans. You’ll stay here with the master and I until you’re fifteen.’

  Alf’s face crumpled but he didn’t cry.

  Outside the mistress’s office, when they had a few minutes alone together, Sandra pulled out the identity disc from beneath Alf’s jumper. ‘Remember Daddy giving you this?’

  Alf nodded.

  ‘Whenever you’re sad or lonely, hold on to it and think of him and Mam. It’ll make you feel better. Always remember they love you, Alf.’

  Face serious, he nodded. ‘I promise I will.’

  Now, as she handled her own identity disc, Sandra thought how long it had been since she’d last seen her brother.

  If it hadn’t been for the help of Mrs Goodwin they might have lost touch completely. Alf, by the age of ten, was proficient at both reading and writing and his big sister was proud of him for achieving what she had never managed.

  When it came to Alf’s turn to leave the orphanage, Sandra had been greatly relieved when he wrote to say that the mistress had found him a job at a local factory that made parts for aeroplanes. He lived in a room in a nearby lodging house. At the time, Alf had told Sandra not to worry as the owner of the lodging house, a Mrs Ivy Robinson, though outspoken, was the kindest per
son. Her husband, though, was a cad, as all he did was spend his time in the bay window, a jug of ale at his side. They had a daughter, May, who was employed in the factory canteen where Alf worked and she always gave him an extra-big portion of dinner.

  The last time Alf and Sandra had been able to see each other was when Alf’s shift work coordinated with her afternoon off. He took her to Colmans’ New Central Café on the seafront. They’d sat in one of the long rows of tables covered with pristine white tablecloths while a palm court orchestra played in the background.

  Alf had insisted he treat his big sister to fish and chips with his earnings.

  When the waitress, wearing a black uniform, apron and frilly cap, brought them a pot of tea and china cups, Sandra whispered, ‘I’m not used to being waited on. I feel like a lady.’

  ‘Sis, you’ll always be a lady to me.’

  Sandra proudly regarded her brother who, seventeen by then, was tall and, with his sandy-coloured hair and twinkling green eyes, rather handsome.

  Alf announced, his young face aglow with excitement and happiness, ‘You’ll never guess what? I’ve been accepted in the ADCC.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Air Defence Cadet Corps. I’m to be trained so that I’ll be ready when the time comes to join the Royal Air Force. That’s what I want to do, sis.’

  Sandra was devastated but didn’t show it for Alf’s sake. She’d known the time would come when he’d have to join the war effort but she still hadn’t been prepared for it.

  Alf’s attitude changed and he couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘The downside is lots of the instructors have been called up into regular service, and buildings taken over for government war work. Sis, I might be sent to work on a RAF station.’

  He’d looked awkward, as though he longed for her approval.

  ‘When?’