Cover

About the Author

HELEN YENDALL has had dozens of short stories and a serial published in women’s magazines over the past twenty years and now writes female-focused WW2 novels. She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association.

She studied English and German at Leeds University and has worked in a variety of roles: for a literary festival, a university, a camping club, a children’s charity and in marketing and export sales. But her favourite job is the one she still has: teaching creative writing to adults.

Although a proud Brummie by birth, Helen now lives in the North Cotswolds with her husband and cocker spaniel, Bonnie. When she’s not teaching or writing, she likes reading, swimming, tennis and walking in the beautiful countryside where she lives.

A Wartime Secret

HELEN YENDALL

Dedication

For Mum and Dad

Chapter 1

London, September 1940

Maggie Corbett lay face down on the open platform of the number 56 bus, the heel of another passenger’s shoe an inch from her nose. It was a man’s black brogue, probably about the same size as her dad’s: a nine or ten. She watched it, ready to jerk her head back if it looked likely to move.

The siren, that awful banshee wail that she’d never get used to, had gone off ten minutes after she’d boarded at Poplar. She shouldn’t have been surprised but, blimey, of all the mornings for it to happen!

It had been standing room only and they’d already been running behind, diverted due to rubble and craters from last night’s raids. If they weren’t all about to be blown to smithereens, she was going to be late on her first day and covered in dirt, into the bargain.

Her clothes must be filthy. She was stretched out, her head in her hands, her face two inches from the grimy, footprint-covered floor. What had been the point of carefully darning her best stockings last night, sponging down her mac and pressing her white blouse? She needn’t have bothered.

Two minutes earlier, she’d flung herself to the floor as the clippie, frantically pressing the bell, had yelled, ‘Oh Gawd! Everyone down! There’s a nasty old man in the sky dropping stones!’ Then the clippie had hitched up her slacks and got down on the floor herself.

The driver had veered to the side of the road and braked heavily, sending people flying.

A gas mask, in its cardboard box, fell onto Maggie’s hand, making her grimace. An elderly woman to one side and a uniformed soldier on the other were struggling to find room to lie down. Maggie tried not to mind too much as she was shoved and prodded by elbows and knees.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ the soldier muttered. Honestly, at any other time, it would be a right rum deal to have a strange man lie down next to you, close enough to smell his ciggie-breath, but these days it seemed almost normal.

Maggie’s nose itched. Dust. She turned her head and shifted her weight so she wasn’t facing the soldier (it was too queer, like they were a married couple lying in bed). She quickly pulled her hand in, before it was stamped on from above by a spiked heel.

Finally, everyone was still. The bus stopped rocking. They were motionless, waiting for the worst to happen. Or, God willing, the all-clear. Someone sniffed; a man coughed. No one spoke. It was like some strange child’s game. If she thought of it like that, it wasn’t quite so frightening.

Dad believed that if your time was up, it was up. If that bomb had your name on it, there was ‘nuffink you could do’. It was certainly fate that had brought Maggie here to this moment, lying in a bus, waiting, possibly, to be blown sky high.

If it hadn’t been for that chance meeting with her old teacher from the secretarial college the other day, Maggie wouldn’t be here now.

She’d popped up town to buy a few bits and pieces for Vi to take with her, and as she was leaving Peter Robinson department store, she’d bumped into Mrs Leibervich.

‘What are you doing now, Maggie?’ she’d asked. ‘Have you kept up your shorthand and typing?’

Maggie told her about the munitions factory. ‘It’s essential work,’ she’d added proudly.

‘And how do you like it?’

Maggie thought about the cavernous factory that was alternately sweltering and freezing, the infernal noise and the rotten smell of oil that clung to her clothes, skin and hair, no matter how often she washed. The flickering artificial light gave her headaches, and the stuffiness was so bad that sometimes, in her lunchbreak, she gulped the air outside like a fish out of water.

The wages weren’t bad, though. She used to hand over her pay packet to Mutti each week and get some money back, for ‘spends’.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Mustn’t grumble.’

Mrs Leibervich narrowed her eyes. ‘You know, there might be a position for a clever girl like you at a friend’s bank.’

Maggie shook her head. ‘No, really—’

But Mrs Leibervich had placed her warm hand over Maggie’s and glanced around, as though checking no one was listening. ‘This would definitely be essential work. I could put in a word, if you like.’

A week later, the factory was bombed out and Mrs Leibervich got her an interview for the job at the bank.

Today was meant to be her first day.

Maggie’s nostrils were full of the smell of Cherry Blossom shoe polish and sweat. She tried to breathe through her mouth. Usually, down in the shelters, some bright spark wouldn’t be able to resist a joke or a song but here no one spoke, apart from a woman lying a few feet away in the aisle, who tutted and murmured, ‘I’ll be late again. Bloody Germans, pardon my French.’

Maggie bit her lip. Everyone hated the Germans, of course, especially now, since the bombing had started. There was an absolute rage against them.

‘They ain’t normal, you know,’ the woman continued, to no one in particular. ‘They’re not like us. Oh no. My old mum says they eat babies.’

Maggie had to grit her teeth. She’d heard lots of comments like that recently, but it still made her burn inside. She wanted to stick up for the Germans, but what could she say?

Actually, I know some very nice Germans. They’re not all Nazis. I’m sort of one myself. We’re not all bad! No, she couldn’t say that, she’d be set upon.

A soft breeze blew across the open platform of the bus, carrying an acrid smell of burning. Maggie lifted her head and glimpsed the deserted street, the coils of hosepipes, smoke and ruined buildings.

At any other time, the cool air would be welcome; the bodies next to her were generating an uncomfortable warmth. But Maggie could only think about how exposed they were. Could the enemy bombers see them … from the sky? London buses were such a bright red, they might as well have a target painted on them.

The old woman next to her must have been thinking the same; she suddenly started to shake and whimper. Maggie reached out to stroke her hand. She was as small and frail as a tiny bird.

‘Shhh, love,’ Maggie said, trying to sound perky, though her teeth were chattering. ‘It’ll all be all right.’

If she survived this, the prospect of what lay ahead at Rosman’s was making Maggie’s stomach twist. When she finally arrived, the typewriters would fall silent. The other girls would watch from their desks and listen to the inevitable dressing down she’d get from the supervisor, Miss Sharp. Maggie would turn scarlet, with all those hostile eyes on her. She’d have to put her hand up to her cheek, to cool her face down.

‘You’ll grow out of it, Liebchen,’ Mutti used to tell her, with a reassuring smile. But she hadn’t. Maggie was eighteen now – eighteen! – and she still blushed at the slightest thing.

Miss Sharp had interviewed Maggie only last week. She was poker-thin and angular, like her name, and she hadn’t smiled once. Miss Sharp didn’t seem the sympathetic type. Maggie had passed the shorthand and typing tests, but the older woman had seemed doubtful, pursing her lips and peering at Maggie over tortoiseshell spectacles as Maggie assured her that yes, the journey from Poplar was perfectly manageable. She’d have said anything to get that job, to be a business girl at last!

She’d left the interview feeling quite down, convinced she hadn’t come up to scratch. So, it had been a surprise when the letter came, confirming her position at the bank. Even Dad, who was never impressed by anything, had nodded his head in something like a ‘Well done’ when she’d shown him the letter.

For once, it had seemed things were going her way. Mutti – when Maggie finally got the chance to tell her the good news – would be so proud.

But now, doubtful Miss Sharp was about to be proved right: the journey from home to the bank wasn’t manageable, after all.

Maggie couldn’t bear the thought of being late. She’d been told to arrive punctually. Could they sack her before she’d even started? Dad would go barmy. And, on top of everything, she’d be letting dear Mrs Leibervich down.

Oh, thank God! The warbling all-clear was sounding. There was a collective sigh on the bus and the tension lifted.

Other passengers around Maggie started to shuffle, moving their limbs and struggling to their feet. There were bangs and thuds on the ceiling, as people in the upper deck did the same.

The clippie waited, her finger poised on the bell, while everyone got up, dusted themselves down and retrieved their gas masks and bags. Maggie helped the old woman into a seat.

The bell sounded. ‘Off we go, fella!’ the clippie called to the driver, wiping dust from her trousers.

* * *

When Maggie eventually reached the panelled front door of Rosman’s Merchant Bank on Bond Street, without further mishap or delay, she was over an hour late. And she couldn’t find the knocker.

The interview had been at a hotel in town; she’d never been to the bank before. Maybe this wasn’t the entrance? There was no one around to ask. Should she go down the alley at the side? Or perhaps there was a doorbell here, set into the stone wall? She couldn’t see anything that resembled one.

She pushed on the huge door without much hope but it gave a little, so she shoved with all her weight and it finally creaked and then swung open, whereupon she tripped up the step and fell inside. Blast! She’d landed on the rough horsehair mat inside the door.

‘Awww!’ The cry was more out of frustration than pain. She seemed doomed to spend half this morning lying in a heap on the floor.

‘Hullo there, do come in!’ a man called out. He marched across the lobby towards her, smart black shoes clickety-clicking on the tiles and – before Maggie could push herself up – he lifted her, as though she were as light as a doll, and set her down on the floor.

‘Oh, thank you!’ she said, brushing herself down and checking her stockings for ladders, to hide her embarrassment.

Eventually, she had to look up at him. He was tall and thin, a little older than her and he was clearly amused by the spectacle she’d just made of herself. His slicked hair and black business suit marked him out as a bank clerk. They were so close she could see the dusting of freckles across his nose and smell coal tar soap on his skin.

He tutted and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Not another young lady, fallin’ at my feet.’ He was a cockney like her and, clearly, he thought himself a comedian, too.

After the morning she’d just had, Maggie was hardly in the mood for jokes but she tried to smile. He was a colleague, after all, and almost certainly her superior; she needed to make a good impression.

She glanced around the lobby. There was a reception desk straight ahead, strangely devoid of a receptionist. A shining chandelier hung from the ceiling and beneath it, in the centre of a round table, stood a huge vase of flowers.

She looked back at the clerk. ‘It’s my first day. Maggie Corbett’s the name.’

He nodded. ‘Ray Maguire, at your service.’

Was he laughing at her? Maggie gazed at him. Those lips were definitely twitching, as though he were about to laugh. But perhaps he always looked like that.

Apart from Mr Maguire, the place seemed empty, the building silent. This wasn’t like any bank she’d been in before. Where was everyone?

He rubbed his hands together. ‘All in one piece, are we? Because—’ he pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat and grimaced ‘—I’m ushering everyone through. Rounding up the stragglers.’

The jokiness of a minute ago had disappeared. He was suddenly awfully businesslike. ‘Would you mind coming this way, Miss er … Miss? And if you don’t mind, could you walk quite fast?’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Maggie said, following Ray Maguire as he set off down a corridor at a fair lick. ‘The bus had to go another way because of the mess on the roads and … Well, it was all Herr Hitler’s fault.’

‘Most things are,’ he called back. ‘I shouldn’t worry. Let’s face it, ’til we get here each morning, none of us knows if the place will still be standing or just a pile of bricks.’ He held open a door for Maggie, followed her through and rapidly overtook her.

They hadn’t shaken hands, had they? Should they have? Mr Maguire seemed in too much of a hurry for any niceties.

‘His Nibs is here,’ he said over his shoulder, as though that should mean something to her. ‘Everyone’s in the boardroom.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Important announcement.’

The carpet was thick and the corridor walls were covered in paintings set in ornate gold frames: landscapes and horses and bowls of fruit. Maggie inhaled. Even the air was different, it smelled of something exotic, like cigars. Or money.

They slipped in at the back of an oak-panelled room in which about twenty bank employees were standing with their backs to them. Ray Maguire seemed to forget her immediately: his attention was fixed on the middle-aged man standing at the front, addressing everyone.

Now, there was a proper toff, a real gentleman. He was speaking in a deep, rich voice, that carried clearly to the back of the room. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. It must be him: Lord Ashford, the owner of the bank.

She resisted the urge to take a look at her new colleagues and focused on what Lord Ashford was saying.

‘… given the international situation … likely to continue for some time …’

‘I knew it! What did I say? He’s going to close us down,’ a freckled redhead said crossly. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. Someone nudged her and a couple of others glared at her to be quiet.

‘My intention is to protect the bank and all its assets. There’s no time to be lost. And so …’ He paused and gazed at them all.

Maggie moved her head to one side to get a better look at him. He was ever so handsome. Like a film star. Like Clark Gable! She’d seen Gone with the Wind at the Troxy three times and yes, that was who he reminded her of: Rhett Butler, with his dark, Brylcreemed hair, side parting and pencil moustache. And those sparkling, intelligent eyes, scanning the room. They wouldn’t miss a trick, those eyes.

He spoke clearly and loudly but he wasn’t frightening, like an awful lot of bosses, he was more … what was the word? Imposing, yes, that was it.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘I am proposing to move everything to Snowden Hall, my place in the country, miles from here. Away from London—’ he waved his arms ‘—and the bombs and this horrendous mess.’ He nodded, took a gulp from a glass of water on a nearby table and waited for their reaction.

No one spoke. A few people exchanged frowns and worried looks. Then the redhead piped up again. ‘And what about us, Sir?’ she asked, tilting her chin. Her body was held rigid, her jaw clenched. She looked ready for a fight.

Lord Ashford hesitated for a moment, then his face broke into a smile. He was even more handsome when he smiled.

‘You, Miss Davenport? What’s to become of you?’ He laughed. ‘Why, didn’t I say?’ He held out his arms. ‘You’re all coming too!’

Chapter 2

‘You ain’t going and that’s my final word!’

Maggie was lifting the pan of boiled potatoes from the stove to the sink as, behind her, Dad yelled and thumped the kitchen table. The plates and cutlery rattled. The cat, Tabby, shot out through the open back door.

Dad’s face was beetroot, his fists tightly closed. He’d never used them – yet – but perhaps the day was getting closer.

She could kick herself. Why had she even told him the bank was moving? She should have made up a story about losing her job. She could’ve said the place had been bombed out, like the munitions factory. He’d have believed that. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for two workplaces to have bought it. Not with the way things were going: every night now, enemy planes came and set a different part of the city ablaze.

And besides, it wasn’t as though she even wanted to go. The other girls had been so excited after Lord Ashford’s announcement that hardly a stroke of work had been done all day. Although the raids and dogfights overhead hadn’t helped. Twice, they’d had to leave their desks and file down into the bank’s basement to take cover for an hour or more.

As for the dreaded encounter with Miss Sharp the supervisor, she’d merely nodded in Maggie’s direction and said mildly, ‘Ah, there you are, Miss Corbett. Welcome to Rosman’s.’ She’d waved a finger towards a girl with blonde curls, a grown-up Shirley Temple type. ‘There’s your desk. Next to Miss Fry.’

The girls had exchanged smiles. Maggie needn’t have worried about being late, after all.

No, the others could be as thrilled at the prospect as they liked but the thought of leaving London had left Maggie cold. How could she possibly go? She’d never been away from home before but, besides that, it would be like running away from the war itself. And who’d be here for Mutti and Violet, when they came back?

‘Who’ll cook me dinner, if you go gallivanting off?’ Dad asked, interrupting her thoughts. ‘First your mother disappears—’

As if she’d had any choice in the matter.

‘—and then your sister.’

Maggie’s chest tightened. That wasn’t fair! She’d had to beg Dad to send little Vi away. He’d refused to let her go when war broke out, when her whole school was sent to Wales.

‘No! Families stick together,’ he’d said. Which was a joke because they never did anything together as a family, except eat their meals around the little kitchen table, in uneasy silence.

So, Vi had been kept at home, even though all her pals had been evacuated and there was no school to speak of. She’d been the only child down in the shelters and people had stared at them, no doubt thinking they were wrong for keeping a child in London when everyone knew sending them away was for the best.

It was only after those poor kiddies were killed in the shelter the other night, that he’d agreed, finally, that it was too dangerous for Violet to stay in London.

Maggie had taken Vi to the station but she wasn’t allowed on the platform. No tears, no fuss, that was the order.

She’d watched through the railings with the other women – mothers with brave smiles and sad eyes. The other evacuees, five little boys all at least a foot shorter and five or six years younger than Vi, were driving the WVS woman in charge to distraction, bashing each other with their gas mask boxes and running amok on the platform.

‘It goes against the grain,’ one of the women said, crying into her hankie once they’d waved the train off. Maggie knew what she meant. She was a sister not a mother, but it still tore her apart to let Vi go.

Her sister had been gone for three days and ten and a half hours. Maggie was on tenterhooks; she wouldn’t relax until the postcard arrived, telling them where Vi had been sent.

Mutti had gone, Violet had gone. There was no way Dad would let her leave too.

She suddenly felt a surge of indignation. Why shouldn’t she go? She was eighteen years old, an adult. Other girls her age were serving in the WRENS and the WAAF, putting their lives in danger for King and Country, doing their bit.

Maybe this move, with the bank, to the countryside was her big chance? Once, after Dad had ranted and raved and slammed the door on his way out to the pub, Mutti had said, ‘You and Violet will get away from this, one day.’

Maggie thought she’d meant when they got married and had homes of their own but perhaps neither of them had to wait that long. Perhaps some good could come out of this bloomin’ war, after all.

But what about Mutti? she’d thought When would she get away? Maggie could never shake the feeling that Mutti would have left Dad a long time ago, if she’d had anywhere to go.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!