An Orphan's War

by Molly Green

  ‘What a story,’ June breathed. ‘I wish you could tell us more, but for now, shall I go and fetch Peter?’

  ‘Nein. No, no, please not.’ Herr Best sprang to his feet but the two men waved him down again. ‘I must see him on my own. It is all I ask.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘Detective Inspector Mason,’ Maxine said, ‘I believe we are able to arrange it. Peter is in the vegetable garden. It’s one of the things he enjoys most. May we allow Herr Best to see his son alone?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘It’s only a hundred yards away from the house.’

  The detective hesitated, and Maxine held her breath. Then he broke into a smile for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, ‘but I request that you ladies take Herr Best to the vegetable garden and keep an eye to make sure everything goes well.’

  ‘We will make sure,’ Maxine said firmly, rising to her feet. ‘We have a responsibility towards every one of our children.’

  ‘But I am not one of those children,’ Herr Best reminded her. His words were strong, but Maxine saw his eyes gleam.

  Outside, Maxine and June led Herr Best over to the greenhouses and pointed to the various vegetable plots. Peter was on his knees, his face in profile, red with exertion, trying to pull out a particularly stubborn-looking weed. Lizzie had already given up and gone to hold one of the maypole ribbons, but Freddie had remained by the boy’s side.

  Maxine stole a sideways glance at Herr Best. His face was aglow. Ignoring the two women, Herr Best started to walk slowly towards the boy. As he got closer, he stopped and whistled a tune. Peter’s body froze. Then his head shot up and he turned round. From where she stood, Maxine saw the boy’s startled expression, his mouth forming an O. Seconds later his lips curved into a smile of pure joy. Maxine held her breath as Peter scrambled to his feet and began to sing in a piping voice:

  ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes …’

  ‘Peter! Kommst du.’ Herr Best held his arms wide.

  ‘Papa!’ The boy raced the few yards between them and hurled himself into his father’s open arms.

  Maxine and June watched as Herr Best folded his son to his chest as though he would never let him go – ever again.

  The two women beamed at one another, tears running down their cheeks. They stood for a minute or two, lost in the scene. Maxine knew instinctively June was thinking the same as her. That Herr Best was no Nazi monster but had been working as a resistor, and that his only concern now was for his son.

  ‘Come on, Junie,’ Maxine said, finally dragging her gaze away. ‘They’ll be fine without us gawping.’ She turned towards the two policemen who were standing in the doorway, their attention firmly fixed on Herr Best and Peter. The sergeant caught her looking in his direction. He made an exaggerated play of examining his watch, then nodded to her, and she knew he was demanding that the German and his son should return to the house immediately. She nodded back, and strolled over to Herr Best and Peter, trying to make her steps take up as much time as possible to give them a few more precious moments.

  ‘Herr Best,’ Maxine said quietly.

  ‘Ja – yes. You have come to part me from my son. They want me back.’ He gave her a direct look.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid they do. But you can bring Peter.’

  ‘No. Peter should not hear these things. He is better to keep in the garden.’ Herr Best bent and gathered his son close again, whispering to him.

  Peter nodded, his eyes full of tears. Giving his father a last hug, he ran the short distance to the vegetable plot, Freddie rushing ahead and barking.

  ‘It’s very sad …’ Maxine began.

  ‘Ja.’ Herr Best shrugged. ‘But I told my boy I will come to see him when I can, and explained I am helping the people in England. I said one day, when this terrible war is over, I will come to fetch him and we will make a new home together.’

  ‘Did he understand?’ Maxine couldn’t keep the anxiety from her voice.

  Herr Best suddenly smiled. ‘He is my son. He understands everything I tell him. He is very happy to see me. And I am even more happy to see him.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve finally found one another.’

  They walked to where June was waiting, a big smile on her face. The two policemen hadn’t moved from the doorway. Leaving Herr Best with them, Maxine took June’s arm.

  ‘I’ll begin and you come in on the next round.’ She smiled at June as she took in a deep breath. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes …’

  ‘… when she comes …’ June sang out, ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes …’

  ‘… when she comes …’ Maxine put in, laughing. ‘All together!’ She linked arms with June and they opened their mouths wide. ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain, coming round the mountain, coming round the mountain when she comes.’

  The two women entered the Great Hall, arms still linked and singing lustily, ‘She’ll be driving six white horses when she comes …’ And by the time they stepped into Maxine’s office with Freddie now at their heels, barking with excitement, their final rendition of ‘driving six white horses’ was practically swallowed up in their gales of laughter, much to the bewilderment of Detective Inspector Mason and Sergeant Carroll following behind with Herr Best. The two policemen simply looked at one another and shook their heads.

  Acknowledgements

  Heartfelt thanks to my dear agent, Heather Holden-Brown of HHB Agency, with her wisdom and kindness, together with her delightful assistant, Cara Armstrong. You make a great team!

  Thank you to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, senior commissioning editor at Avon HarperCollins. Not only are you gorgeous but you are so talented and always understanding. Then there’s Katie, Sabah, Phoebe, Molly, Elke, Zoë, and a whole team at Avon who are so enthusiastic about my Dr Barnardo’s series and determined to get the books in front of as many readers as possible. I’m so grateful to you all.

  Thank you to Megan Parker at Dr Barnardo’s headquarters in London for gathering much of the information I needed to create an authentic setting for the orphanage. You provided fascinating details such as the wide variety of country houses, some of which were commandeered, all transformed into Dr Barnardo’s homes during the Second World War; the various duties of the staff, and some touching photographs of the children themselves during that terrible period. I’ve kept several of those faces in mind when they appear in the story.

  This leads me to the founder of Dr Barnardo’s – Thomas John Barnardo (1845–1905), an Irish philanthropist. At first, he took in all boys because he was a bachelor, but upon his marriage to Sara Louise who worked side by side with him, they were allowed to take in girls as well. A staggering 60,000 children have passed through Dr Barnardo’s homes.

  I must now mention my fantastic writing friends. I belong to a small (and select!) group, all published – we call ourselves the Diamonds. The four of us, Terri Fleming, Sue Mackender, and Joanne Walsh (and me!), with April Hardy as an honorary member who occasionally turns up from Dubai, meet every month in one or other of our homes for a whole day. We critique each other’s work amid valuable brainstorming, encouragement and laughter. We come away totally inspired to get on with that elusive next chapter.

  There is another small group of writerly friends who have generously opened their homes (and holiday cottages) to me regularly for writing retreats. Although we’re only able to meet occasionally, when we do it’s like yesterday. Again, we are four: Carol McGrath, Suzanne Goldring, Gail Aldwin and me! Looking forward to meeting in Port Isaac and Greece this year, girls, for our next writing get-togethers!

  And then there’s Alison Morton – superb thriller writer, and the best critique writing partner one could ever hope to find. She reads all my manuscripts in both early stages and later, using her brutal red pen which makes my heart plummet when I get the pile of pages back. She’s annoyingly right 94.23% of the time. Happily, I get my own revenge
when her manuscript comes through for me to read! Somehow we’ve remained great friends!

  I mustn’t forget the Romantic Novelists’ Association – a unique organisation for making writerly friends who support one another through good and bad, and are never more than a tweet away.

  Writing books can be isolating, and not everyone is lucky enough to have a beautiful white cat with amber eyes who keeps me company in my writing cabin, padding his way over my keyboard and coming up with amazing plot ideas. Yes, Dougie, I’m talking about you!

  I need to thank the following people for helping me with the research for this book:

  A larger-than-life porter kindly took me down into the cavernous basement of St Thomas’ Hospital. We seemed to walk forever along dimly-lit corridors and miles of old exposed pipework. I tried to imagine the staff during the war running the entire hospital down here with the bombs falling. I’d asked him to show me the famous ‘White Rabbits’. I won’t say more – just go and see them for yourself!

  I was once acquainted with a lovely man who was a sub-officer in the fire department, and went through the London Blitz. When I found out his first name was Crofton I pounced on it. I’d never heard the name before but immediately knew it would be the name of my next hero. I wish he was still around so I could tell him, as I think he would be amused.

  My sister, Carole, introduced me to a lady in her knitting group called Nina Foord. She and her brother spent many of their childhood years in a Dr Barnardo’s home although they weren’t orphans as their father was in the military. Nina gave me some lovely descriptions of the naughty things she and some of the other children got up to, and I’ve enjoyed incorporating several of these into this series.

  One of the joys of writing historical novels is the research. I went to Liverpool with a list of buildings and places I needed to see. My first and most important was Western Approaches, the building where the whole of the Battle of the Atlantic was plotted and organised. I couldn’t believe it when I read a scrappy notice on the door saying it was closed for refurbishment. Almost in tears I walked back to the docks where three tourist buses were lined up, huge maps painted on the sides. I asked the drivers where they went. One of them, a bear of a man, pointed to his bus. ‘We stop here to see Gerry and the Pacemakers, then we go on to the Beatles’ place where they first sang, then we go to this fabulous shopping centre—’ ‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘I want Second World War stuff.’ ‘Oh, you want to go to Western Approaches.’ When I told them it was closed and how upset I was, the bear of a man said, ‘Come here, pet.’ He gave me a huge hug. The other two started laughing when I said I felt better already. ‘Go over to the Maritime Museum,’ the bear advised. ‘They’re sure to have all the information you need.’ He was right!

  My husband, Edward Stanton, self-made historian, particularly of the two world wars, checks the manuscript before the final proofread. He is great at spotting those wily anachronisms and advises on military matters, being an ex-RAF chap, but always warns that any errors in the final version are mine!

  Read on for an exclusive extract from the next Molly Green novel …

  An Orphan’s Wish

  Coming November 2018

  Before …

  Mellanby, North Yorkshire

  Lana read Dickie’s letter for the umpteenth time. It was dated 23rd August 1941.

  My darling dearest girl,

  I hated leaving you for yet another tour but I’ll be home before you know it. I can’t wait to see your lovely face again, bury myself in that wonderful hair of yours, but all I have at the moment is your photograph. I’m gazing at it now as I write this.

  I miss you so much, Lana. When I get my next shore leave we’ll go on long walks, hand in hand.

  Keep safe for me, darling. I long to hold you in my arms again. I love knowing my grandmother’s ring is nestling between your breasts, but it’s hidden, and I want to put it on your finger to let the whole world know we’re engaged to be married – the sooner the better. I know you prefer to wait so we can tell your parents together, but it’s so frustrating with this damned war.

  Give my love to them, and if you get time, I know mine would love you to call in at number 10. You’re always welcome – you know that. If you let them know ahead of time, Mum will make your favourite liver & bacon dish.

  Will close now and try to get a couple of hours’ kip before the next shift. Will write again soon.

  I love you so much.

  Dickie xxx

  Lana blinked back the tears. Her dearest love. He’d worked in their special code – created by them because of the severe censoring of all letters between members of the armed forces and their parents, wives and girlfriends. She loathed liver, but it meant he’d be docking at Liverpool, and his parents’ address at number 10 meant he’d be home in the tenth month – October. She couldn’t help smiling as his parents’ number had changed more than once to suit his homecoming date. Her hand automatically touched the ring – Dickie’s ring that she’d put on a thin gold chain and worn around her neck ever since his proposal on her birthday, 6th August.

  Though his letter was dated 23rd August, she had only received it today. It was 4th October; the month he said he’d be home. As usual, the letter had taken several weeks to arrive. But the year was now 1942. And the diamond and ruby ring was still around her neck.

  Chapter One

  February 1943

  ‘Is there something wrong, dear?’ her mother said, her voice anxious.

  ‘They won’t accept me for driving,’ Lana said dully, as she slid the sheet of paper back into the envelope.

  Her mother’s eyes widened. ‘Why not? An intelligent young woman – healthy—’

  ‘Seems I’m not.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘They say I’ve got flat feet. I’d never be able to march. They might be able to find me a job in an office as a civilian – well, they can forget that.’ She rounded on her mother, the gold in her hazel eyes flashing. ‘The woman who interviewed me more or less said they’d welcome me with open arms as an experienced driver. Some welcome.’

  ‘Well, at least you haven’t got anything serious,’ her mother said calmly. ‘You had me worried for a moment.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Mum. Joining up was going to change my life. Pay back those bloody Germans for killing Dickie.’

  ‘Don’t swear, dear,’ her mother said mildly. ‘I know how you must feel but if I may say so … and don’t get cross with me, but that isn’t quite the right spirit. You want revenge for Dickie’s death but that’s going to keep you bitter. Not all Germans are Nazis. I’m sure many of them don’t want to fight any more than our boys. I do understand your feelings but—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but you don’t understand at all,’ Lana said, her voice rising as she sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll never forgive them – never!’

  Knowing she was behaving badly but not being able to stop herself, she rushed from the room.

  ‘You shouldn’t take it personally, Lana,’ her father said when she’d calmed down a little and stepped into her parents’ grocery shop a quarter of an hour later. ‘They haven’t rejected you – it’s just one of those things.’

  It was pointless to argue with her father. She knew he was right anyway. But it didn’t make it any less hurtful.

  ‘Your mother and I have been talking. The last thing we want is to keep you at home now Mum’s getting better. Working in the shop is not for you – it would be a waste of all your training. Now Marjorie has left to join up, I’ve put an advertisement in the paper for a part-time assistant.’ He glanced at her, and she saw the love and concern reflected in his eyes. ‘You have to decide now what you want to do. Personally, I think you should go back to teaching. Your mum says the same.’

  ‘You sound like Dickie,’ Lana said, more than a little annoyed.

  ‘I’m not surprised. Dickie was right. We all know how the children loved you. I think they thought you were a little eccentric – di
fferent from any of their other teachers – and that was why they adored you.’ His eyes twinkled with humour and she couldn’t help giving him a small smile. ‘I think that’s where you’re needed. Not fighting Jerry.’

  She couldn’t think of a reply so she busied herself with undoing a box of tinned sardines that had just been delivered.

  ‘Any eggs this week?’ she asked, more for something to say, as there wasn’t much hope of any.

  ‘We’re expecting our allowance tomorrow,’ her father said.

  ‘Well, at least that will stop Mrs Mason from her perpetual moaning.’

  Her parents’ words tumbled over in her mind the rest of the morning. Maybe they were right. Maybe her strength lay in teaching. And if she was honest, she’d missed it terribly these last few months when she’d come home to look after her mother, when a severe case of influenza had turned into pneumonia. Lana closed her eyes for a moment. It had been touch and go. At one stage she’d thought she was going to lose her mother as well as her fiancé. Now her mother was finally regaining her strength, Lana had some thinking to do. She was uncertain as to whether the headmaster would give her back her old job, even though they knew her slightly unconventional ways worked, and couldn’t deny how much the children responded to her.

  She remembered standing in the headmaster’s office when she’d asked him if he could hold her position by having a temporary teacher for the time it took her mother to recover. He couldn’t guarantee it, he’d said. It depended upon who came in her place. What their situation might be. At that moment in his office, under his stern gaze, she’d made up her mind never to go back to that school, whatever the circumstances.

  ‘Even if he offered it to me it would be going backwards,’ she said aloud as she checked the list of items they were waiting for delivery. She’d always taken pride in starting something new if things didn’t turn out as expected or if she was unhappy. Begging for her old job would be akin to admitting failure.