The Forgotten Orphan: The heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel

by Glynis Peters

  With mutterings to the positive, the men went back to shuffling papers and placing them back into their briefcases. Cool, calm, and collected. Not one of them gave her a thought.

  ‘But I’m still here. What happens now?’ she asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ one of the men said.

  To Maisie’s horror, the tears she’d held back flowed down her cheeks.

  ‘What happens to me?’ she whispered.

  The man who appeared to be the senior person turned to face her. He coughed politely before speaking.

  The other three remained stern-faced and unemotional.

  ‘I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll discuss the way forward. I’m afraid I don’t have the time now. Nine-thirty. Does that suit you, Miss Reynolds?’

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Maisie nodded. He spoke with a softer voice and she felt reassured that he’d do as he said.

  ‘Good. Do you have food?’

  Maisie nodded.

  As he walked past her, he stopped and laid his right hand on her shoulder, giving it an awkward tap.

  ‘We’ll help. Don’t worry,’ he said.

  Maisie stood there, bewildered and bemused, as she watched them pull away from Holly Bush. Everything felt surreal. A dream with no ending.

  After clearing up the tea things, Maisie curled up on the comfortable chair in the kitchen with blankets around her feet and shoulders and read into the evening. She nibbled at her supper and pondered on the outcome of the following day. Just as she reached scenario two, she heard the familiar wail of the siren warning of enemy planes heading their way. The thought of sitting in the shelter alone didn’t appeal and she made the bold decision to stay where she was and risk riding it out in comfort. She pulled the desk away from the window and made a makeshift bed underneath. Outside, the noises grew louder. Planes thundered across the sky much closer than in previous attacks. Flashbacks to the night Norah died caused Maisie’s breath to hitch in her throat; fear clawed its way into her chest. The pounding of her heart became unbearable, to the point where she wished it would stop beating – anything to end the fear of death.

  The force of the first bomb shattered through the trees. Tiles on the kitchen wall fell away and splintered onto the granite floor. She felt the thud of one bomb, then another and judged them to be a short distance away. Droning over the property was the thunderous pounding of the never-ending engines and it penetrated her skull and beat a tune of despair. The walls of the big house shuddered, and wooden beams creaked as they threatened to twist from the security of their thick iron nails. Maisie’s ears popped and she forced a yawn to clear them. Attack after attack from both ground and sky ripped her nerves to shreds, leaving them unable to support her body. Eventually, drained of all emotion except fear, she curled into the foetal position, wrapping her arms across her body to give herself the comforting strength she’d always hoped another person would offer her at the end of life.

  She’d heard that when death came for you, your life flashed before your eyes, and you thought of nothing but those you loved. Maisie had no life to recall, and as for those she loved, they were non-existent.

  Flashes of light flickered through the narrow cracks around the edges of the blackout curtains, and Maisie flinched at each one. She scrunched her fists together and her jaw ached when she gritted her teeth. To know you are to die, and to hear your attacker pound through the skies with relentless force was enough, but to die alone? Maisie had never dreamed that the end of her life would see her alone. Even the German pilots who’d trained their bombs on her small part of the world died with colleagues, with friends.

  When the kitchen window shattered across the floor, Maisie accepted her lot. She made peace with all those whom she felt had done her wrong, and once again repeated the only prayer she knew. Then came the silence. Whirring engine sounds drifted out of earshot and the wind’s whistle settled. But the silence was short-lived. Next came the sound of fire bells clanging and voices in the distance drifted through the darkness. Maisie shivered as cool air blew in through the shattered window and across the kitchen. A red glow across the tips of the trees at the end of the driveway told her that a large fire burned in the Shirley area. No doubt the enemy planes were targeting the Southampton docks and Spitfire factories again. She’d heard Charlie and his father discuss the dangers when they drove to Aldershot.

  The light from a small torch guided her towards the door and upstairs to her room. A few glowing embers from the small fire she’d made before the evening’s attack had started were a welcome sight. Without undressing, she climbed under the covers, thankful that the windows in the room were intact. Tomorrow she’d prepare to leave Holly Bush. Remaining was no longer an option. She needed to do something useful towards the war effort. To fight against the enemy in her own small way.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sleep had eluded her after the bombing, and her nervous tension about the pending visit from the council official left her tense. To her surprise, a group of soldiers turned up unannounced and began an organised unloading of vehicles.

  She rushed downstairs and unlocked the front door.

  ‘Morning ma’am. Sorry about the noise.’

  ‘Oi, mind the bleedin’ door mate.’

  ‘You mind your manners, there’s a lady be’ind ya.’

  Maisie listened to the banter between six soldiers who were moving large wicker boxes from the back of an open-tailed vehicle marked with a red cross.

  ‘Morning miss. Got the kettle on yet, gal?’

  ‘Kenny, stop that bleedin’ whistling.’

  The joy of hearing happy voices bouncing from the walls lifted Maisie’s mood to a higher level. She gave them a beaming smile.

  ‘I’ve got to clear glass away from a broken window and then I’ll get onto it,’ she said.

  Placing the kettle onto the stove, it occurred to Maisie that making tea was a task she performed so often. Her job description should read, ‘tea-maker’. She swept the glass to one side and set up a table of tin mugs for the men.

  ‘Tea’s up,’ she called through the doorway into the hall. Without warning, a sudden rush of bodies moved down the hall and the six soldiers raced into the kitchen. She stood to one side and allowed them the freedom to help themselves. One of the group gave her a toothy grin.

  ‘Cor, you’re a gooden’ gal. The fodder’s on the next run. Some for each house, so me sarge said. We’ll fix the winda when we’re done. Planes?’ he said, without drawing breath.

  Maisie assumed he was in charge of the group. He had turned to another soldier and chattered on before she had the opportunity to respond. She listened to the group, trying to pick out words from their strong accents. Eventually, she caved in and asked where they originated from.

  One young man was Scottish, and she soon learned that nobody understood him. The group leader and another soldier were from London. One came from Birmingham, one from Norfolk, and Kenny the whistler came from Suffolk. She tried to remember their names as they introduced themselves but settled on knowing the leader’s name was Will.

  She also learned Kenny was the joker of the group. She liked him. She liked them all. They were a mixed bag of fun people yet each one showed her respect.

  ‘When’s the rest of your lot coming to work?’ Kenny asked Maisie while he cleared the glass into the yard.

  Maisie laughed and took the broom from him. She watched as he went to fetch a large piece of board and held it to the window frame whilst his Scottish colleague held a hammer ready to cover the damage.

  ‘I’m it, I’m afraid. There’s only me,’ Maisie replied.

  The Scottish soldier mumbled something but with large nails gripped between his teeth, all Maisie could do was throw a questioning frown to Kenny.

  ‘I think he said something about slavery,’ Kenny translated for her.

  The Scotsman turned away from his hammering, removed the nails from his mouth and looked at her. ‘Where’s yer fowk? Wark?’


  Without the nails in his mouth, Maisie just about understood his questions.

  ‘I’ve lived here since I was four. I’m an orphan. It was an orphanage. I’ve become part of the furniture.’

  Kenny raised an eyebrow and let out a low whistle.

  ‘Sorry. Didne realise,’ said the Scot.

  ‘Now you know,’ Maisie said. ‘If I’m truthful, I’m a bit concerned about what’s going on here today. It’s happened so fast and one of the officials who came yesterday said they’d be back today to talk with me, and that you weren’t due for several days.’

  Kenny clambered down from the ladder.

  ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. We got orders for the delivery today. Right. Well, we’d better get finished before the next run,’ he said before leaving the room.

  Another three truckloads of items arrived, and Maisie kept out of the way. She’d decided that since it was several hours past when the council worker was due, she’d take a walk to the common. When she reached the edge, she could see smoke spiralling from Shirley and the Southampton area. She heard the soldiers mention that over two hundred people had been injured in the night bombings, many dead and hundreds left homeless. She thought of Charlie and hoped he was safe.

  Not wanting to see any more, she turned on her heel and walked back to the house. Several more trucks and cars lined the driveway and as she walked towards the building, a warm sense of peace washed over her. She now lived in a temporary rehabilitation unit, not an orphanage – until someone told her different.

  Dodging large crates and pieces of furniture, Maisie slipped around the back and into the kitchen. An enormous stack of tinned foods and other items, either in sacks or wooden crates, partially filled the room.

  A young soldier stood counting the boxes and ticking them off on a list.

  ‘Sorry about this. It arrived all at once and we need to feed them’—he thumbed towards the hallway—‘once it’s unpacked. We’ll be out of your way, but I warn you, we’ll be back.’

  ‘How many will be eating?’ she asked, dreading the reply. She couldn’t tell how many men were on site.

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘What will they be eating?’ Maisie asked.

  ‘Spuds, carrots, onions, all with a bully beef teaser.’

  Bewildered by the confusion around her, Maisie decided she’d wait until she was told to start cooking. She’d cooked for six in the past, but only as part of what Matron had called ‘kitchen education’, and even then she’d only managed to fry eggs and bacon.

  ‘Right. And a bully beef teaser is what, exactly?’

  It was a question she had to ask, for if she was expected to cook it, she’d need the recipe.

  ‘Basically it means open a tin of corned beef and cook the rest.’

  Not wanting to appear ignorant, Maisie didn’t reply, and instead turned to look at a large hot water urn on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Now, that’s a useful item.’

  ‘It’s full and hot if you want to use it. I’ll be letting them in to use it soon, so best get in quick. They’ll stampede through like kids in the sweetie shop.’

  Maisie laughed. ‘Yes, I witnessed their attack this morning.’

  She edged her way around the boxes to the locked cupboard. She took the key from her pocket and proceeded to prepare a pot of tea from her ration collection.

  ‘What’s all that in there?’ the soldier asked, and moved over to her side, peering into the cupboard.

  ‘It’s, er, well, um, my orphanage rations.’

  ‘I see. So, they’re not official … military?’

  Maisie shook her head.

  ‘No. They’re mine.’

  Realising she sounded selfish – or worse, greedy – Maisie hastily added, ‘but I’ll share them.’

  ‘There’s no need. You can put your own allowance in there and we’ll use the remainder of the cupboards for the official stuff. I’ll find out your allowance as I’ve not had to work it out for a female before. All I know is that you get a bit less.’

  Pouring the tea, Maisie handed him a cup.

  ‘Cor, I haven’t had tea in a china cup since I went to say goodbye to my gran. Thanks.’

  ‘I didn’t want them to get broken,’ Maisie said.

  ‘Don’t blame you. Heirlooms are precious nowadays. So many things are lost thanks to the Jerries.’

  Unsure if a reply was expected, Maisie said nothing. She was saddened to realise the soldier thought the cups had been handed down by her family, but she decided they would become her personal property as there was no one left to claim them. She washed them up with care and placed them and the tea items back in the cupboard.

  ‘Wait!’ the soldier said before she could lock the door.

  She froze and took a second to turn around.

  He stood holding out a packet of tea.

  ‘If you’re going to be generous with your rations, I can be the same with ours,’ he said and gave her a beaming grin and a wink.

  ‘Thank you …’

  ‘Jim. I know you’re Maisie because there’s only one female here and your name has been mentioned a few times. All good.’

  When Jim left to gather a group of soldiers to put things away in the kitchen, Maisie ventured into the hallway and went to look around the rest of the building. The transformation was astounding. Her room had a ‘No Entry’ sign nailed to the door, and it was an indignant Maisie who ignored the instruction. She pushed the door open and, to her relief, the room was as she’d left it that morning.

  The dormitory was set out as a large storage centre for endless boxes of what looked to be medical equipment, and the bathroom also had a new sign. ‘Female Staff Only’. In the old storage room, she noticed four unmade beds and all the clutter removed, giving the room a lighter, airier feel. She assumed the nurses would be on the same floor as her.

  Downstairs, the frantic moving of furniture back and forth had finished. She volunteered to unload boxes of unused orphanage accessories to make the stark rooms more attractive. Maisie started inside Matron’s old office first, delighting in changing the appearance from somewhere she’d once dreaded entering to a room offering relaxation and comfort. Large armchairs were placed looking out onto the grounds and all other furniture had been removed. When she’d finished adding a cushion here or draping a shabby chair with a checked blanket there, the room looked comfortable and inviting. The old dining room – the temporary matron’s office – was now a room of official standing. Large filing cabinets lined the walls, a set of weighing scales stood on the opposite, and on the desk there was a heap of bits and bobs but she found a place for each item. Once finished, she gathered up a mound of stethoscopes and draped them from some old coat hooks.

  Further down the corridor were three more rooms and Maisie saw they had also been made into comfortable seating areas. One room had shelves which she filled with books, and for the other she hunted out packs of cards and board games. Beside each chair she arranged small coffee tables that she’d dragged from the back of the old cupboard in the hallway and stacked the games on each one. She enjoyed the praise from the soldiers, who took it in turns to try out the chairs pretending they were lords of the manor. For a brief time, Maisie had fun in her home. She doubted it would last but she absorbed the feeling so she could look back on it for comfort on a dark day.

  She wandered back to the kitchen and, to her delight, it was tidy, every cupboard filled with foodstuffs. A large sack of potatoes stood near the sink so she grabbed a peeler and set to working out how many potatoes were needed for twenty hungry workers.

  By the time Jim returned, a flushed-faced Maisie had peeled her last carrot.

  The large ovens heated the kitchen when both were lit, but with daylight dwindling, Maisie dared not open the back door for air. She needed lights on.

  ‘What the …?’

  ‘Something wrong?’ a puzzled Maisie asked, as Jim stooped to look inside the ovens.

  She had gravy w
hich was browning in a large pot of Bovril-flavoured water and she stirred furiously. On the table were large metal tins, jugs of different sizes, and plates piled high next to a mound of cutlery.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Writing a book. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to turn out supper for more people than I dare think about. What have I done wrong?’ Maisie wiped her hands down her pinafore and waved them palm up in question.

  ‘You, dear girl, have saved me and three others a massive job!’

  ‘There you go, that’s what happens when the government leaves an orphan in charge. She never quite gets the answer to any of her questions and has to muddle through life guessing. How was I to know you were going to do the cooking?’ Maisie managed a laugh.

  ‘I also hear you’ve transformed the rooms, which will save the ladies a fair bit of work tomorrow. You’re a grafter, I’ll give you that. Thanks.’

  Jim saluted her and walked over with his arm outstretched.

  ‘Jim Waddeston, cook for king and country. Soon to be part of the new Army Catering Corps by demand of the Quartermaster General. Trained at catering school, St. Omer barracks, Aldershot – at your service, ma’am.’

  Maisie wiped her hands again, and took his, shaking it hard.

  ‘Maisie Reynolds. No great chef, and no mind reader either. Formerly resident of this large establishment, brought down to earth by a sack of spuds for not knowing who’s who round here.’

  Jim’s laugh bellowed out and he slapped his hand across his knee.

  ‘You forgot to add Queen of Sarcasm. Brilliant humour you have there, Maisie. Keep it up. It will get you through life.’

  Maisie pouted. ‘I think I’ll need a lot more than humour. Right, these bully beef teasers are ready. I’ll drain the veg. Where are they eating?’

  ‘Bully beef teaser?’

  ‘My name for them. Well, yours really,’ Maisie said as she pulled out large tins of corned beef covered with mashed potato.