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

by Shirley Dickson

‘Mama said she would follow as soon as Papa came home. Mama always keeps her word. I’m afraid they’ve been arrested like Papa.’

  The curate didn’t say the expected, that God worked in a mysterious way and she must pray and ask to keep her family safe. Mr Carlton didn’t say anything but closed his eyes for a time and kept so still that Frieda thought he might have nodded off.

  He opened his eyes and they brimmed with gentleness. ‘I suggest you speak to God, as you’ve spoken to me. Tell Him what is in your heart. Fear, anger, confusion, whatever the case may be. Tell Him of your distress for the family. Speak to Him as a friend and tell Him everything.’

  ‘Then what?’ Frieda wanted to know.

  ‘Trust in Him.’

  In the silence that followed, Frieda desperately wanted to tell him about her problem with food. The guilt and sadness she felt every mealtime when she caused Aunty Doris such unhappiness. To tell him about the power of the voice in her head that ruled her life.

  ‘I have this—’ she began, but a noise from behind stopped her and, turning, she followed the curate’s gaze.

  The church door opened and Sandra stood there.

  Frieda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn’t want Sandra to see her like this. And today Frieda had neither the energy nor inclination for social chatter with her friend.

  The intimacy of the moment of confession over, she told the curate, ‘I must go.’

  His knowing eyes understood. His smile was generous. ‘I’m here if you need me.’

  Frieda made her way up the aisle and, nodding acknowledgement to Sandra, she heaved the church door open and went into the cold outside.

  Sandra studied the curate as he walked towards her, seemingly immersed in thought. He stood level with her.

  ‘Did I interrupt something?’ she asked.

  With a distant look in his eye, he gazed at her, but then he gave a welcoming smile. Sandra was reminded how easy it was to confide in him.

  ‘You work with Frieda at the Nichols’ farm, I believe.’ His reluctance to address her question made him go up in Sandra’s estimation a thousandfold. Confidences were safe with him. It gave Sandra the courage to tell him why she was here.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘We get on well together.’ She didn’t add that she’d become close to the lass in the few weeks they’d known each other and she felt a protectiveness toward her.

  Everyone needed a listening ear and Sandra was glad for Frieda’s sake she’d chosen Mr Carlton to tell her troubles to.

  Nervous, Sandra braced herself, then plunged in. ‘I’ve something to ask you. It’s more of a request, really.’

  He stood aside and indicated towards a pew. ‘How can I help?’

  She moved past him, sat and brought the two letters from her pocket. Then, the disgrace of her illiteracy made the words she wanted to say dissolve in her mouth.

  ‘Are those letters from your brother?’ he helped.

  She was amazed that he remembered, and it gave her confidence. ‘Yes. One of them is. The other is from a good friend I used to work with, Mrs Goodwin. I wondered if… you would read them to me. You see…’ The burn of shame made it difficult to go on.

  ‘Whatever it is, you’re in God’s house and your secret’s safe.’

  His words, like a balm to her troubled spirit, gave her courage.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve never learnt to read or write. In the past I’ve always found someone to read me letters but here I don’t like to… Oh, it’s difficult. Not that I think anyone would judge me. I get along with everyone…’

  There, she’d spoken the words out loud and the heavens hadn’t caved in and neither did the curate look shocked.

  ‘I understand.’ Whether he did or not, Mr Carlton put Sandra out of her misery. ‘Would you like me to read the letters to you?’

  ‘If you’d be so kind, I can’t wait to know what Alf has to say.’

  His smile was understanding. ‘One thing. If you can’t read how d’you know who—’

  ‘The letters are from?’ she finished for him. ‘I know Alf’s handwriting and me friend has a code so I know it’s her. See…’ Sandra pointed to where the envelope was sealed. ‘Those four kisses are to let me know the letter is from her.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he approved. His expression solemn, he turned his attention to opening the first envelope. His eyes travelled to the end. ‘It says it’s from Olive.’

  ‘That’s me friend – Mrs Goodwin. She lives at the coast.’

  The curate began reading, and as Sandra listened, Olive’s voice rang out through the words.

  Dear Sandra,

  I’m glad you’re hearing this because it means you’ve found someone to read your letters.

  I hope they help you to reply because I can’t wait to know what it’s like where you live and what working in the country’s like. I never thought I’d say this but after another raid last night and no sleep in that blooming draughty shelter, I could fancy a stint of country life meself. You’re missing nothing here, lass, except queues at the shops which are getting worse. The daft thing is no matter how long they are, folk join in and hope for something worthwhile waiting for them at the end.

  That b— woman, Mrs Kirton, has gone too far. She thinks I’m a skivvy. All I hear is, ‘Mrs Goodwin, the steps need scrubbing, the beds haven’t been changed, the ironing needs doing.’ Who does the b— woman think she is! I’ve only got one pair of hands! My Tommy insists I leave. He says, ‘You’re a cook and I won’t have you scrubbing floors, not with your bad legs.’

  So, I’m thinking of working in the clothing factory canteen in John Clay Street, where I might be appreciated. I’d feel I’ll be doing me bit and having a bit of chinwag with the other workers at the same time.

  Last night, after midnight, it was murder with a raid going on. We heard that the bombs were dropped over the Cleadon and Boldon area but no real damage was done. The poor souls in Sunderland got the worst of the raid. There’s tell of folk killed and injured but the woman up the street said some of her family were rescued from their buried indoor shelter. Thank the Lord! Aye, hinny, you’re best off where you are, and no mistake.

  We haven’t heard from Kenneth in a while but like Tommy says, no news is good news. And like the rest of folk I keep me spirit up because right will conquer in the end.

  Hope you find someone to write back and remember there will always be a welcoming bed here if needs be.

  Ta-ra, lass, your loving friend,

  Olive xxx

  ‘Your friend sounds a cheerful soul… colourful but jolly.’ He folded the letter and handed it to Sandra.

  He was nothing like any clergyman she’d known before, Sandra decided, as she returned his smile. Not that she’d met many. The two that stuck in her mind were the vicar at the Kirtons’ church who’d preached about mortal sin and damnation and the priest who came to the orphanage who’d frightened Sandra with his sermons about going to hell if you weren’t good. She’d prayed for forgiveness at her bedside that night, her knees aching from kneeling so long on the wooden floor.

  Gazing into the curate’s earnest expression, Sandra felt obliged to tell the truth. ‘I don’t go to church. I only visit on Sundays to say a prayer for Alf. I can’t abide sermons when you’re not allowed to ask questions after, when you don’t understand. You just have to sit in silence and listen.’

  Mr Carlton’s lips twitched. Then, his eyes focussed on the second letter. A bubble of excitement rose in Sandra’s stomach as he began reading.

  Dearest Sis,

  I trust you are well. I feel I must write to tell you my latest news. Along with one of my crew, I’ve been transferred to a different bomber command (can’t tell you where) and my ‘rest’ has been cancelled for now. My biggest regret is I won’t be able to visit you as promised for a while, which I had looked forward to sorely. But this war has intervened in everyone’s lives. And so, if you don’t hear from me in a while don’t worry. I promise I’ll visit on
my next leave come what may.

  It’s the thought of seeing you that keeps me going.

  Your loving brother,

  Alf Xxx

  The curate folded the letter and handed it to her, a questioning look of concern in his eyes.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she fibbed. ‘Mad that Alf refuses to stay safe and out of harm’s way but that’s a luxury no one has these days.’

  He nodded in agreement.

  It was peaceful to have someone who neither butted in nor wanted to tell about their experience, someone who simply listened.

  Sandra didn’t want to betray the overwhelming fear she had for her brother and she didn’t want him to offer for them to pray. So, her anguish drove her to be flippant. ‘I mean, you don’t have to be in a bomber to be in danger, you could be anywhere. In a shelter knitting, in your bed asleep, then next minute a bomb’s dropped and you’re gone.’

  If she’d thought he would look shocked, she was mistaken. Again, the curate just listened. She had expected him to spout some religious pearl of wisdom.

  She goaded, ‘I thought you might quote an apt passage from the bible.’

  He smiled passively. For some reason that fuelled the anger that boiled within her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything? Aren’t you supposed to comfort?’

  Shocked at herself, Sandra’s inner voice told her to be ashamed at the way she was treating someone in his position.

  ‘I’d rather try to understand.’

  ‘What’s there to understand?’

  ‘What drives you to react in such a confrontational manner when that’s not your way. But maybe I would too if it was my brother courting such danger.’

  Her anger turned to curiosity. ‘Have you got a brother?’

  For a moment he looked unsure, as if as he didn’t know if he should answer. Then his clerical poise slipped and she saw him as an ordinary man, probably with the ups and downs of life like everybody else.

  ‘Yes. Older. He’s a vicar in a Yorkshire parish.’

  ‘Your brother’s a man of the cloth too?’

  A reticent expression crossed the curate’s face as though he was considering if this conversation was appropriate or not.

  ‘So is our father. I’ve always wanted to follow his path and mapped my life accordingly.’

  Sandra didn’t know how the curate did it but the anger within her now dissipated, she felt comfortable sitting here beside him, as if she could breathe easily for a while. She thought of the outside world, Alf somewhere, perhaps, on a mission over Germany. The constant gnawing worry in her stomach about her brother was wearing her down, she admitted. But everyone was suffering the same way.

  She thought of Olive’s words when she had talked about her son, Kenneth, away serving his country. ‘In me selfish moments I think how much easier it must be to have no one to fret about. Then I come to me senses and realise life would never be the same without Kenneth.’ She’d given a heartfelt sigh, adding, ‘Loving someone, lass, always holds the heartache of losing them but if you’ve no family, what’s… Eee, sorry, lass.’ She’d almost welled up. Sandra knew that what Olive had said was true. If she didn’t have Alf, life would be impossible. The thought of losing him was too unbearable even to contemplate. But then, she was lucky to have such a close brother to hold in her heart.

  She was aware of the curate as he gazed intently from beneath thick, dark, perfectly arched eyebrows.

  ‘Your mam must be proud at having three clergy in the household.’

  It occurred to Sandra that she had changed. Not so long ago, when she was a subdued housemaid, she would never have dared to ask such a bold question.

  ‘Mum is not the type—’ He looked startled, as if he didn’t know how they’d arrived at such a conversation. ‘You haven’t come here to talk about me.’

  She took a deep breath and dived in. ‘I have another request.’

  The curate nodded his consent for her to go on.

  ‘I want to learn to read and write. I wondered if…’

  At this point Sandra did lose her nerve. She thought, Fancy having the audacity to ask Mr Carlton such a favour.

  The curate looked unsure. ‘In such a matter it’s best if I speak with Mr Fairweather, the vicar here at Leadburn Church.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll find another way to—’

  ‘It isn’t a question of bother. It’s a matter of propriety. I would need Mr Fairweather’s permission for such a request as this.’

  ‘It was cheeky of me to ask. Please don’t trouble yoursel—’

  ‘Miss Hudson, if it was up to me, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.’ Again, his expression was uncertain, as if he had spoken out of turn.

  13

  May 1943

  Frieda

  Frieda sat alone at the kitchen table, listening to the news on the wireless. The newscaster reported, in a typically English voice – posh, was how Aunty Doris described it – that German troops in Tunisia had surrendered.

  Frieda stopped eating the porridge in front of her.

  She’d found that if she made the porridge oats with water and didn’t add milk, sugar or treacle, she could eat a small bowlful and she didn’t put on any weight. The energy the porridge gave her made it possible for Frieda to work for the rest of the day at the Nichols’ farm, something she desperately wanted, as she longed to see Antonio when he returned. A shiver of excitement surged through her at the thought. It seemed forever since Antonio had last worked at the farm and she’d met him in the tack room.

  Frieda wondered if the news meant that the end of the war might be near. Her thoughts turned to her family. Were they still in Berlin?

  She’d seen on the map in the butcher’s shop window illustrating RAF targets, that Germany and Berlin were amongst them. The British had targeted only areas of military significance so far, but the raids on Berlin had, so it was reported, infuriated Hitler and he’d retaliated by ordering the Luftwaffe to target British cities. While some villagers favoured the RAF doing the same, Frieda’s concern was for the neighbourhood she’d grown up in and the people she’d known. It was harrowing to think what might have become of them and the family she held so dearly in her heart.

  Her mind in turmoil, she willed her brain to think of something else. Her thoughts diverted to a more acceptable subject. Antonio. Today might be the day when the lorry carrying prisoners would arrive. Frieda envisaged his thickset figure stepping down from it and her heart rate quickened.

  Her tummy uncomfortably full, she washed the bowl and left it on the wooden drainer so Aunty Doris would see proof that she’d eaten breakfast.

  Later, sitting on the three-legged stool in the stall, Frieda saw Sandra as she entered the byre.

  A beaming smile on her face, she walked up to Frieda’s stall. ‘Morning, Frieda, did you sleep well?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you.’ Another fib. Her empty stomach and the nightmares prevented sleep and Frieda had tossed in the bed thinking about the morning when she could eat her bowl of porridge.

  ‘What a beautiful clear day. You can see over to the hills.’ Sandra was so enthusiastic it made Frieda smile.

  Frieda now considered her a friend. Sandra hadn’t flinched that day when she’d told her she was German, and neither did she speak in that foolish way pronouncing words as though Frieda didn’t understand English. She treated Frieda as an equal.

  ‘I was hurrying and didn’t notice.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. How could you miss the dawn? It was so spectacular!’

  Intent on getting to work to see if the lorry carrying prisoners had arrived, Frieda hadn’t noticed the weather.

  Apart from Aunty Doris, Sandra was the only person Frieda felt totally at ease with since she had left Berlin. They talked to each other as they milked the cows, something Sandra was now competent at after all the trials she’d experienced learning. Mainly they discussed the different characters in the village and farm life and giggled like
schoolchildren at the silliest things.

  Frieda recalled the time they’d taken the cows back to the field together. Sandra, afraid at first to be amongst a herd of cows, had kept to the outside. She’d been whistling then suddenly stopped. Frieda, the other side of the cows, looked over the top of the large beasts but couldn’t see her friend’s head. Mystified, she waited till the cows passed then saw Sandra sitting on the field on her bottom.

  ‘Damn and blast. I slipped on a cowpat!’ Her look of disgust had been comical and made Frieda laugh. An indignant look on her face, she stood and viewed the damage on the seat of her dungarees, then pulled a disgusted face. ‘It’s not funny,’ she told Frieda, who stifled a giggle.

  As their eyes met, Sandra’s lips twitched and they had both dissolved into giggling wrecks.

  Sandra, by now, had disappeared into the next stall where Gertie was tethered. Frieda grimaced. Gertie was not Sandra’s favourite cow. Last week, Gertie had moved one of her hooves and tipped over the galvanised bucket with the precious milk. Frieda suppressed a smile; her friend didn’t have much luck with cows.

  As Frieda worked with the hypnotic splash of the milk hitting the side of the pail, she found herself speculating what Sandra would think if she knew what a coward she really was.

  The self-loathing returned. She wasn’t the brave girl the curate imagined.

  The scene that day on the ship replayed in her mind’s eye. The men shouting in a foreign tongue. Kurt, quick as a flash, running down the gangplank. Frieda, standing frozen in fear. She hadn’t even attempted to follow him.

  The voice of guilt told her: Kurt was your little brother; it was your job to protect him.

  Frieda had tried to make the shame go away by telling herself that even if she had acted and run after Kurt she could never have caught up.

  Deep down, she knew that wasn’t the reason she’d stood rooted to the spot on the ship that day.

  She’d wanted to be on the boat. She hadn’t wanted to go back to Germany where people were attacked for being Jewish, their homes ransacked, innocent people arrested and sent to goodness knew where. Frieda had been glad to have arrived in England, where she wasn’t reviled or spat on. And though, because she was different, she’d experienced being bullied here at school, Frieda still didn’t want to go back to her homeland.