Girls of the Great War

by Freda Lightfoot

  OTHER TITLES BY FREDA LIGHTFOOT

  HISTORICAL SAGAS

  Forgotten Women

  The Amber Keeper

  Lakeland Lily

  The Bobbin Girls

  Kitty Little

  Gracie’s Sin

  Daisy’s Secret

  The Favourite Child

  Ruby McBride

  Dancing on Deansgate

  Watch for the Talleyman

  House of Angels

  Angels at War

  The Promise

  My Lady Deceiver

  Polly’s Pride

  Polly’s War

  For All Our Tomorrows

  Home is where the Heart Is

  Always in My Heart

  Peace in My Heart

  LUCKPENNY LAND SERIES

  Luckpenny Land

  Storm Clouds over Broombank

  Wishing Water

  Larkrigg Fell

  POOR HOUSE LANE SERIES

  Girl from Poor House Lane

  Child from Nowhere

  Woman from Heartbreak House

  CHAMPION STREET MARKET SERIES

  Putting on the Style

  Fools Fall in Love

  That’ll be the Day

  Candy Kisses

  Who’s Sorry Now

  Lonely Teardrops

  WOMEN’S CONTEMPORARY FICTION

  Trapped

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Madeiran Legacy

  Whispering Shadows

  A Proud Alliance

  Rhapsody Creek

  Outrageous Fortune

  Witchchild

  BIOGRAPHICAL HISTORICALS

  Hostage Queen

  Reluctant Queen

  Queen and the Courtesan

  Duchess of Drury Lane

  Lady of Passion

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Freda Lightfoot

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781612187198

  ISBN-10: 1612187196

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE – THE GREAT WAR

  ONE CHRISTMAS 1916

  TWO

  THREE JANUARY 1917

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE AUTUMN 1917

  TEN WINTER 1917

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE FEBRUARY 1918

  THIRTEEN SPRING 1918

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN SUMMER 1918

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  PART TWO – POST WAR

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO 1919

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE 1920

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  1894

  She was running as fast as her legs could carry her, rocks constantly tripping her up, and a blanket of trees towering around so that she could barely see where she was going. The sound of heavy feet pounded behind, filling her with panic. Was he chasing her again? Would she be captured? Breathless with fear, she ran all the faster, knowing what would happen if she did not escape. She could feel her heart hammering, tension freezing every limb. Then pain rattled through her back with merciless precision. She felt utterly powerless and vulnerable, petrified of what might happen.

  A hand tapped her cheek and she jerked awake in panic.

  ‘Wake up, Martha, it’s time for breakfast.’

  Staring into her mother’s eyes, the young girl gave a small sigh of relief. So this had been yet another nightmare, a trauma she suffered from constantly. The emotion attached to it always cloaked her in absolute terror. At least she had managed to sleep a little last night, which was never easy. Tension would mount within her whenever she went to bed, no longer a relaxing time. Now pain and fear escalated through her once more and she cried out in agony.

  It seemed that having spent nearly five months virtually locked away in her room, she was now about to give birth, although she had only just turned seventeen.

  A part of her longed to vanish into oblivion, to disappear back into the world she’d once enjoyed, not least her happy and privileged childhood. Why had that all gone wrong after her beloved father died? Would she now die? Many women did when suffering this traumatic event. Would the good Lord take her to heaven? Her soul having no real attachment to Him, it was doubtful He would trust in her innocence and accept her. Nor did her mother, who’d made it clear she didn’t believe a word her daughter said. She no longer viewed her as respectable and had offered no sympathy or support, declaring that no one must ever learn of her condition.

  Martha gazed up at the window, her blue eyes glittering with desolation. How she ached to catch a glimpse of the sun, the cliffs and the sea. Oh, and how she missed her life. Her mind flicked back to the young man she’d once grown fond of. He was most handsome, dressed in baggy trousers, and lived in one of the fisherman’s huts. Whenever he wasn’t away at sea working in smacks and yawls to catch fish, he’d be in a local pub eating, drinking or gambling. He also spent much of his time sitting by the harbour mending nets. They’d sometimes listen to the band down on the bay along with crowds of spectators, or watch a concert and dancing. Claiming he adored her, he’d give her sweet kisses and had her name tattooed on to his arm. Then one day, when she’d excitedly hurried to meet him, as usual, he’d told her he was off to America in search of a new life, having become bored with fishing. She’d felt utterly devastated. He was so charming and helpful over her family problems that she was almost falling in love with him. How she missed him, but if he were still around why would he ever agree to marry her?

  Now water suddenly flushed out of her and the sound of her screaming echoed around the room, bouncing against the shutters that blocked the window. Over the next several hours, she sank into more agony with no doctor or midwife around to help, only Enid her maid and of course Mama. Whenever another bolt of merciless pain struck, she struggled to sit up in a bid to resist it, only to be pushed back down by her scolding mother.

  Finally, something solid slid out of her, leaving her breathless and exhausted. She felt hands pressing upon her belly and more stuff flopped out, including blood that soaked the bed sheets. Then she found herself being briskly washed, wiped, stripped and dressed by the maid, making her feel like a piece of dirt. Not a single word had been spoken to her, save for orders to push hard and stop screaming. And no comfort offered.

  Whatever child had been delivered was now swept up into her mother’s arms and she marched away, slamming the door behind her. Martha gave a small sob of distress, aware she�
�d been informed the baby would instantly be given away for adoption. She certainly would not be allowed to keep it. If only her life could return to normal, but the harsh, uncaring attitude of her mother proved that would never happen.

  It came to her then that with the agony of her imprisonment and this birth finally over, she had no desire to stay here any longer. In order to maintain her safety, she needed to go as far away from here as possible, and change her name. The time had come for her to leave home and build a new life for herself. Then she’d find herself a husband and become respectable again.

  PART ONE – THE GREAT WAR

  ONE

  CHRISTMAS 1916

  LIGHTS DIMMED as a man dressed as Pierrot in a bright blue costume and pantaloons, peaked hat and a huge yellow bow beneath his chin, skipped merrily on to the stage singing ‘All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor’. He was quickly joined by a troop of dancing girls. They too were dressed like Pierrots, all of them looking ravishing in a pink costume with a wide frilled collar, long swirling skirt decorated with fluffy bobbles, and a tight-fitting black hat. They were complete visions of beauty who brought forth roars of excited approval from the audience. Pierrot waved his gloved hands at them, the theatre being packed with British and Belgian soldiers who responded with cheers and whistles.

  Cecily smilingly watched from the wings as she loved to do most evenings. A part of her ached to join the singers, something her mother would never agree to. Viewing herself as the star performer, she expected her daughters to wait upon her hand, foot and fingers. Not that Cecily believed herself to be a good assistant, being too involved with working as a conductor on the electric trams now that most men were caught up in the war. Her mother disapproved of that. Cecily, however, firmly believed in making her own choices in life.

  Feeling a gentle tap on her shoulder, she found her sister at her side. ‘Her royal highness Queenie requires your assistance,’ Merryn whispered, her pretty freckled face wrapped in a jokey grin. ‘I’ve been dismissed, as she’s engaged in her usual bossy mood.’

  ‘Oh, not again!’ Stifling a sigh, Cecily accompanied Merryn back to the dressing room. Gazing in the mirror, she recognised the familiar lack of focus in her mother’s blue eyes, proving she’d again been drinking. Despite seeing herself as a star, Queenie too often felt the need to overcome a sense of stage fright before she performed.

  ‘Merryn has made a total mess of my hair,’ she stuttered in a slurry voice.

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to, Mama,’ Cecily calmly remarked, and reaching for a brush began to divide her mother’s curly blonde hair across the back of her head.

  ‘Never call me by that name. You know how I hate it.’

  She’d chosen to name herself Queenie years ago as she considered it more appropriate for her career than Martha, the name she was born with. And that was what she required her daughters to call her, having no wish to be reminded of her age. Merryn seemed to accept this. Cecily always felt the need to remind her of their true relationship, which irritatingly was not an easy one. She carefully twisted up a small strand of her mother’s hair and clipped it, then tucked the other portions neatly around before pinning them together with a glittering silver hair slide on the top of her head.

  Grabbing a curl, Queenie pulled it down to loop it over her left ear. ‘I’ve no wish for my hair to be all pinned up. Flick some over my ears.’

  ‘I thought you liked to look as neat and tidy as possible, Mama,’ Cecily said.

  ‘No, fluff it out, silly girl. How useless you are.’

  Cecily felt quite inadequate at this job and checked her success or lack of it by viewing her mother in the mirror. She was a slender, attractive woman with a pale complexion, pointed chin and ruby lips frequently curled into a pout, as they were doing now. But she was also vain, conceited, overly dramatic, emotionally unstable, selfish, overbearing and utterly neglectful. Queenie was never an easy woman to please, even when she was stone-cold sober. She was an exhibitionist and a star who demanded a great deal of nurturing and support, a task Merryn was extremely skilled at and happy to do, save for when Queenie was completely blotto, as she was now. And having been scolded and dismissed countless times when her mother was drunk, her sister would sit in the corner reading Woman’s Weekly, taking not the slightest interest. Once Queenie sobered up she would happily treat her younger daughter as her favourite child in order to make Cecily feel unwanted, even though she’d done her best to help. Not that she ever felt jealous about this, always eager to act as a surrogate mother towards her beloved sister as Queenie could be equally neglectful of them both, wrapped up in herself and her tours.

  There came a rap on the door. ‘Three minutes on stage, please,’ called a voice.

  ‘You should have a drink of water,’ Cecily quietly suggested. ‘It might help to mobilise your voice and cool you down.’

  ‘How dare you say such a thing! My voice is fine,’ Queenie snapped.

  Reaching for a jug, Cecily poured a glass and placed it on the table. ‘Do take a sip to improve it, Mama.’

  Filled with her usual tantrum, she snatched the jug and tossed the water over her daughter’s head. Then she swept the glass of water, a box of make-up, brushes, jars of cream and all other items off the dressing table onto the floor, swirled around and marched away.

  Grabbing a towel, Merryn rushed over to pat Cecily’s damp hair and face.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon dry off,’ Cecily said, rolling her eyes in droll humour. ‘Come on, we need to make sure Mama calms down and performs well.’

  Giving a wry smile, Merryn nodded, and they both scurried after her.

  When Cecily reached the stage, she heard the audience yelling at Pierrot who was running around cracking jokes, the dance being over. They were obviously bored with him, growing increasingly impatient and eager to see the star performer. Finally, the curtain opened at the back of the stage and Cecily watched with relief as Queenie stepped forward, her head held high and arms outstretched. Clutching her sister’s hand, she felt a sense of pride as silence fell. Their mother looked truly gorgeous, elegantly dressed in a sleeveless frock, the décolletage as low as on an evening gown and her back also daringly exposed. And for once, she was not tightly bound in a corset.

  Queenie began to sing ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’. It was one of her favourite songs from her music hall days, a period in which she’d made a small fortune until it began to fall out of fashion. How Cecily envied her ability, always having longed to sing herself. Kissing the tips of her fingers, Queenie waved to her audience with a smile.

  ‘She so loves to proudly display that gloriously large diamond ring she wears on the third finger of her left hand, all she has left of her late husband,’ Cecily murmured.

  ‘I hope to have one of those some day,’ Merryn said. ‘And you definitely will before too long.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cecily said.

  She smiled at the memory of becoming secretly engaged to Ewan. How her heart yearned to see her beloved who was somewhere on the high seas, battling in this dreadful war. It was when Queenie had purchased a large house on Grand Parade close to the Sound in Plymouth, the city where she was born, that Cecily had first met Ewan at the fish market near to the Barbican. They’d become true friends and would spend hours walking barefoot along the beach, happily holding hands beside the comforting sound of the sea. They’d go fishing, swimming or sailing in one of his father’s boats. He’d admitted his love for her the moment she turned sixteen, when he held her in his arms to give her a happy birthday kiss and Cecily had confessed she loved him too. Two years later, war broke out and it had been utterly heartbreaking when he’d joined up for the King’s shilling.

  ‘You will be here waiting for me when I return, won’t you, my darling?’ he’d asked, on the day he admitted to having visited the recruiting station. She told him how much she loved him and would look forward to his homecoming. His spirit was high, excitement buzzing through him as he held her close f
or a tender kiss. Like thousands of other men, he was a loyal patriot determined to protect his family and country from foreign invasion.

  His parents received this news in distressed silence, particularly his mother who quietly expressed her gratitude to Cecily for her support. They’d agreed she could see him off at Millbay railway station, an inability to say goodbye to their son in public very strong in them. Cecily would never forget the sight of dozens of young men gathering on the platform to depart, with sobbing mothers, wives and sweethearts all around.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Ewan had told her, giving her a loving smile. ‘This war will be over by Christmas, so there’s something I want to ask you.’

  It was then that he went down on his knee and asked if she would marry him. ‘I love you so much, I wish you to be with me forever as my wife.’

  She’d squealed with delight. How she loved the memory of that moment. Oh, and had ached to say yes. Knowing it wouldn’t be easy to acquire the necessary permission from her mother, she promised to speak to Queenie and persuade her to agree. They’d kissed and hugged each other and as the train chugged away, the tears she’d been holding back ran down her cheeks at last.

  ‘You will write to me, my love?’ he’d asked.

  ‘I most certainly will,’ she’d promised, adoring his choice of words. She lived in hope the war would end soon and they’d be together forever. Right now, her joyous memory of him was interrupted by the sound of fidgeting and groaning coming from the audience.

  ‘Oh dear, Queenie’s performance is not being well received,’ Merryn whispered. ‘She looks slightly warped and there’s a hoarseness in her tone of voice.’

  ‘Very likely the fact she drinks too much gin before each performance,’ Cecily sharply remarked.

  They met each other’s gaze in bleak despair, feeling a deep concern for their mother. Queenie was not at all as popular as she’d been in her younger days. There were rarely any fans by the stage door here at the Palace Theatre waiting for her at the end of a show, and few men around, save for the odd occasion like this evening. And these young soldiers here on leave would prefer a song that was much more lively and up to date.

  ‘Fly away, bird, if that’s what you are,’ yelled one soldier.