by Pam Howes
The Girls of Victory Street
An absolutely heartbreaking World War 2 family saga
Pam Howes
Books by Pam Howes
The Bryant Sisters
1. The Girls of Victory Street
The Lark Lane Trilogy
1. The Factory Girls of Lark Lane
2. The Shop Girls of Lark Lane
3. The Nurses of Lark Lane
4. The Midwives of Lark Lane
The Mersey Trilogy
1. The Lost Daughter of Liverpool
2. The Forgotten Family of Liverpool
3. The Liverpool Girls
Rock ’n’ Roll Romance Series
Three Steps to Heaven
’Til I Kissed You
Always on My Mind
Not Fade Away
That’ll be the Day
Fast Movin’ Train
Hungry Eyes
It’s Only Words
Audio
The Midwives of Lark Lane (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
The Factory Girls of Lark Lane
Hear more from Pam
Books by Pam Howes
A Letter from Pam
The Shop Girls of Lark Lane
The Nurses of Lark Lane
The Midwives of Lark Lane
The Lost Daughter of Liverpool
The Forgotten Family of Liverpool
The Liverpool Girls
Acknowledgements
*
Dedicated to the memory of Bobby Vee (April 1943–October 2016), who I always had in mind when I created the character of Bobby Harrison in this story.
Thank you for the wonderful music and the fabulous memories of meeting you. A time I will always treasure.
1
Wavertree, February 1939
Bella Rogers groaned as the alarm clock rang out on the bedside table. Monday morning – again. It came around all too quickly. She rolled onto her side, turned off the clanging bell and pulled her share of the thin woollen blankets around her. The air in the room felt icy cold and she shivered. Her nose, the only bit of her outside the blankets, was freezing.
She drew her legs up as her younger sister Molly’s cold feet touched her shins. The three Rogers sisters all topped and tailed in the big double bed, and now little Betty snuggled down into Bella’s back. Bella screwed her eyes shut again and tried to recapture the dream she’d been enjoying. Just five more minutes, she begged silently as she listened to her mam and dad moving around in their bedroom across the landing, and then the sound of them hurrying downstairs to start their day.
Soon her mam would be yelling up the stairs for the sisters to hurry up and get dressed. It was no use; the dream had gone, and there was no more losing herself in thoughts of Bobby Harrison chasing her across The Mystery Park on a warm summer’s day, catching hold of her and pulling her into his arms. Not that she’d yet had that pleasure, but with his big blue eyes and floppy blond hair, he was the most handsome boy in the school and every girl’s dream of a sweetheart. He was also the most popular singer in the church choir and people said he sang like an angel. Bella loved to sing alongside him; everybody said they harmonised well.
She sighed and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, just visible in the early morning light filtering through the thin curtains. She might as well as get up and make a start. She could hear her dad clearing the grate and riddling the ashes. Soon he’d have a roaring fire going that would take the chill off the back sitting room. She stuck a foot out of bed and winced as she waved it around, testing the air. Molly sat up slowly, pushing her dark brown fringe out of her sleepy eyes.
‘Morning, Mol,’ Bella greeted her sister, who scratched her nose and sniffed loudly. ‘It’s freezing,’ she complained. She handed a handkerchief to Molly and climbed out of bed, gingerly stepping onto the cold, worn lino, and crossed to the window. Drawing back the curtains, she gasped as she gazed out onto the backyard, which was covered in a thick snowfall. She chipped at the feathers of ice that had formed patterns on the glass with her fingernail. ‘It’s been snowing hard again. Best throw your clothes on right away,’ she said to Molly. ‘Here, do it under the blankets and keep warm.’ She passed one of the three neatly folded piles of clothes that her mam had left out last night across to Molly and shook Betty gently by the shoulder. ‘Come on, Bets. Let’s get you dressed and then we’ll go down and have some breakfast.’
Betty’s large brown eyes flew open and her bottom lip pouted. ‘I want to stop in bed today,’ she said. ‘Don’t wanna go to school.’
Bella smiled. ‘You have to. We’ll soon have you warmed up. Come on, Daddy’s making a nice fire before he goes to work and Mam will be making porridge to warm you up before we go out.’
She sat down on the bed, lifted Betty on to her knee and pulled off her flannel nightdress. Betty’s skinny arms, covered in goose-bumps, huddled around her little body and her teeth chattered as Bella slipped a fleecy liberty bodice over a vest and knickers, followed by a white blouse, navy gymslip and a warm dark blue cardigan knitted by their mam. Bella did her best to help as much as she could with her younger sisters as both their parents worked hard and had little spare time. Their dad would be heading off to his job as a tram driver shortly and Mam worked at Olive Mount children’s hospital, just up the road, as a cleaner. She too would be leaving the house soon as she began her shift at eight o’clock. She finished at three, which gave her just enough time to get home and tidy up before she picked up five-year-old Betty from infant school at half past three.
Bella, who would be fifteen next month, and twelve-year-old Molly walked home together as they didn’t finish until four.
Bella told Molly to help Betty put her socks on and take her downstairs to Mam while she got dressed herself. She hurriedly threw on her white blouse, grey pleated skirt and cardigan, and took a look in the age-speckled mirror on the wardrobe door. She’d do. There wasn’t much choice. Her school clothes were all she had to wear during the week. Mam had knitted them all thick woollen socks as part of their Christmas presents and although they were hardly the height of fashion, they were warm and would keep the chilblains at bay on a day like today when her feet were shoved inside her wellies. She didn’t have any other boots that would do in this weather.
Bella quickly made the bed; she picked up their discarded nighties from the floor and folded them before slipping them under the pillows. She pulled a brush through her dark, wavy hair, smoothing down her glossy fringe, and teased out the ends so that they sat on her shoulders in curled flicks. She clipped the sides back behind her ears with a couple of tortoiseshell hair slides and, satisfied that it looked okay, ran down the stairs to join her sisters.
The ice was begi
nning to melt on the windows as the warmth from the roaring fire worked its way around the small back sitting room. Betty and Molly were seated at the table eating breakfast and their mam was rushing around as usual, handing a greaseproof wrapped package of sarnies to Dad with a flask of tea for his dinner break.
‘Right, you sit down, our Bella,’ Mam ordered. ‘I’ll get you a bowl of porridge.’
Bella smiled. Although her mam had insisted she be christened Annabelle, she was always called ‘our Bella’ at home and her friends called her Bella too.
‘You off now, Dad?’ Bella threw her arms around him and gave him a hug. ‘Don’t work too hard.’
‘I’ll do me best not to, queen,’ he teased. His deep-set brown eyes, the same colour as all his daughters’, twinkled and he gave her a hug back. ‘See youse all later, gels,’ he said, pecking Mam on the cheek and tweaking Molly and Betty’s plaits, which had miraculously survived a night in bed without needing redoing. He hurried down the narrow hallway to the front door with their shouted goodbyes following him.
Bella sat down next to Molly, sprinkled sugar over her porridge and wolfed it down in seconds flat. She eyed up the last slice of toast left on a plate in the middle of the table and hoped no one else wanted it. Good manners made her ask her sisters if they wanted to share but they shook their heads. She reached for the toast and spread a thin layer of mixed fruit jam across the surface.
The label on the jam, bought from the corner shop on Victory Street, gave no clue as to what the fruit might be, but Bella thought she detected apple and possibly plum. Mrs Horner, who ran the shop, made a lot of jams and chutneys and gave a halfpenny back for every empty jar that was returned to her. The older Rogers sisters took it in turn to wash and take back the empty jars and were rewarded with the money to spend on sweeties.
Mary Rogers lifted little Betty down from the table and wiped her sticky chin. ‘Come on, Bets, let’s get your teeth brushed and then you’re ready for school.’ She led her youngest into the kitchen and stood her on a small stool so that she could reach the taps. Mary sighed as she reached for the tin of dentifrice from the shelf above the sink and took down three toothbrushes from an old jam jar, wishing, not for the first time, that the small terraced house had a bathroom and an inside toilet – known as a carsey in Liverpool – that they didn’t have to share with two lots of neighbours. One day, God willing, she was hoping they’d be able to afford something bigger and better, perhaps with a nice backyard of their own. But for now it was enough that she and Harry could keep a roof over their heads and food in their girls’ bellies.
Mary laid the brushes on the wooden draining board and spread them with the pink paste. She handed Betty hers and made a brushing motion with her hand up near her mouth to show her what to do. Betty worried her a bit at times as she needed showing the same thing every day.
She’d arrived when Mary had thought she’d done with new babies, and seemed much slower at grasping things than the older two had been. They’d both walked and talked early on and been out of nappies at eighteen months old, even at night. Betty had been nearly four before she’d been dry at night and she’d had to stay in the cot in the same room as Mary and Harry. It wasn’t fair to make her share with the older girls.
Bella would have had a fit if Betty’s rubber pants had leaked and wet the bed. She was quite fussy, was Bella, very particular in her ways. Always neat and tidy and forever combing her hair. Once Betty was ready to share a bed, she’d gone in with the others and she and Harry had the bedroom to themselves for the first time in years.
Betty finished her tooth-brushing and smiled, baring her teeth for inspection.
‘Good girl,’ Mary said, rubbing the damp flannel over her chin to wipe off the pink foam that had dribbled down. ‘Go and tell Molly and our Bella to come and do theirs and put your wellies on and then I’ll take you out the back to the carsey.’
Betty ran off and Mary swilled the sink ready for the other two. Then she pushed her feet into Bella’s wellies, opened the back door and peered out, just in time to see their next-door neighbour struggling through the snow in a pair of old boots with no laces. He was making his way up the yard towards the row of carseys with a newspaper under one arm and a packet of fags in his hand. She tutted. He shared with them and he’d be in there all blooming morning. No one else to think about but himself.
‘Ken,’ she shouted. ‘Can you please let the girls use it first? They’ll be late for school otherwise and I’ve got to set off for work shortly.’
Ken Arkness turned around and glared at her. ‘I suppose so,’ he grumbled. ‘But tell ’em to be quick. I had a bad fish from the chippy last night and me stomach’s on the turn. Don’t know how long I can hold on.’ He shuffled back indoors, still grumbling.
Mary shook her head as she led Betty across the yard, lifting her up so that she didn’t slip on the icy cobbles. ‘Bad fish, my eye,’ she muttered. ‘More like a bad pint or five.’ Thanks God she’d caught him in time as the girls wouldn’t set foot in the carsey for ages after he’d been in, and she couldn’t blame them.
She yanked on the chain above the toilet as soon as she and Betty had finished. No water flushed out of the cistern. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she groaned. ‘Frozen solid.’ Why didn’t Harry say anything before he left for work? Mind you, thinking about it, he hadn’t gone outside; he’d just used the chamber pot under the bed as soon as he got up. She’d have to find the little paraffin stove that came out each winter to help thaw the cistern. She hoped there was some paraffin left in it.
Back indoors, and after telling her older two to use the carsey quickly and not to worry about the flushing, Mary rooted in the cupboard under the stairs and found the paraffin lamp. She filled the bowl in the kitchen sink with hot water from the kettle, dropped some pine-scented disinfectant in it and hurried out to the toilet block again, telling Molly to carry the lamp and a box of matches. Mary poured the hot water into the toilet bowl and lit the lamp. She placed it as far back as she could in the small brick-built cubicle.
‘That should help, but we need more paraffin for later. I’ll get some before I pick up Betty from school,’ she told Molly. ‘I’d better warn Ken next door so that he doesn’t drop his newspaper on the lamp and set the blooming place on fire.’
She hammered on her neighbour’s door but there was no reply. Ken was a bit deaf, so Mary tried the handle and stuck her head inside the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the fetid stench of stale food, grease and an unwashed body. There were dirty pots littering every surface.
‘Ken,’ she called, ‘the carsey’s all yours now but be careful as I’ve had to put a lamp in there, the cistern is frozen up. I’ve put some hot water down the bowl so it’s clean, but if it won’t flush for you, I suggest you do the same after you’ve been.’ She paused for breath. ‘Get a bucket of hot water and add some bleach or disinfectant to it to freshen it up.’
She hid her irritation as he grumbled that washing carseys was women’s work and he’d be doing no such thing. God he was such an awkward bugger, she thought as she went back into her own house. No wonder his wife had run off with the rag and bone man years ago and taken their two kids with her.
Ken wasn’t even that old – he’d be younger than Mary’s own late dad – but he acted and looked old to get sympathy from the neighbours. Well he was getting none from her today, and with a bit of luck Flo on the other side of him might sort the cleaning out when she came out for her turn to use the carsey. It was an unspoken agreement that Mary and her daughters were first in the morning queue as they all had to leave the house early, while Flo and Ken were at home all day.
‘Right, I’m off,’ Mary called from down the narrow hall as she buttoned up her coat, pulled off Bella’s wellies and slipped on her black zip-up boots over a pair of Harry’s old patched-up work socks. Not very glamorous, but she’d take them off when she got to the hospital. For now they’d help prevent her poor old toes from getting chilblains.
‘I’ll see you all later. Now, Betty, don’t you let go of our Bella’s hand, and no cutting across The Mystery today because the snow will be deeper on there; stay on the pavements while you get to school.’ She fastened a red woollen headscarf over her blonde curly hair and pulled on a pair of matching red mittens. ‘Make sure you all put your scarves and hats on. Betty’s mittens are in each of her pockets. Enjoy your day, girls.’
‘Bye, Mam,’ they chorused. Mary closed the front door and walked tentatively down Victory Street to the corner, gasping as a blast of cold air took her breath away. She waved at her friend and workmate Ethel Hardy, who was slowly making her way up Grosvenor Road.
‘Morning, Et, here, give us your arm,’ Mary greeted her.
‘Morning, Mary,’ Ethel responded. ‘I could have stopped in bed this morning; I can’t be doing with this sort of weather.’ The pair linked arms and slipped and slithered their way towards the Olive Mount children’s hospital to begin their working day.
2
Fifteen-year-old Edith Potts made her way slowly from her home on Bligh Street and turned onto Banner Street, which ran parallel. She trod cautiously on the hard-packed snow that covered the icy pavements, terrified of falling. Last winter she’d broken her left wrist and a bone in her lower arm after slipping on ice in the school playground. It had been so painful, taking ages to get right, and this year she was taking no chances. She knocked on the door of number sixteen, a bay-windowed terrace identical to the rest of the street of tightly packed houses, and stood back as someone inside yelled, ‘Front door.’