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About the Author

ANITA FRANK was born in Shropshire and studied English and American History at the University of East Anglia. She lives in Berkshire with her husband and three children and is now a full-time carer for her disabled son. Her debut novel The Lost Ones was shortlisted for the Goldsboro Books Glass Bell Award and the Historical Writers’ Association Debut Crown Award. The Return is her second novel.

Also by Anita Frank

The Lost Ones

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Dedication

For Mum and Dad

With all my love

Part One

Chapter One

Gwen

8th May 1945

It is Tom who hears them first.

She has been watching him run up and down the grassy margins at the edge of the field, his arms flung wide, the tops of his wellies flapping against his skinny calves. Although she cannot hear over the deafening putter of the tractor, she can easily imagine the nasal drone he is making as he swoops and dives, mimicking the Spitfires that sometimes fly over the farm.

She eases down the left-hand brake as she approaches the end of the row. As she feeds the steering wheel through her hands, bouncing on the Fordson’s scooped steel seat, she notices him pull up. He stands rigid, his narrow chest rising and falling, his blond head cocked to one side, a shallow furrow in his brow.

Bringing the vehicle about, she twists around to check on Nora who is standing on the running board of the seed drill being pulled behind. The Land Girl sweeps her hand through the heaped grain in the trough before her, then lifts her head and grins. She offers Gwen a thumbs up, reassurance that the seed is falling evenly. Gwen nods in acknowledgement and allows her gaze to stray back to her son, who remains stationary by the hedgerow. Dark fumes belch from the exhaust stack as she lightly presses her foot to the throttle.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Tom turn. He starts to run across the harrowed soil, waving his arms, shouting, though she is unable to make out his words. Struck by a sense of unease, she slows the tractor until it chugs to a standstill, its coarse engine idling. Behind her, Nora raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, as she too begins to track the boy’s advance.

At last, he reaches them, breathless and excited. He keeps back, wary of the tractor, warned of its dangers from an early age. ‘Mummy!’ he shouts over the grumbling motor. ‘What is it? What’s that noise?’

Gwen frowns. The Fordson is drowning out all other sounds. She is reluctant to pull the switch and kill the engine, knowing what a pig it will be to crank up again, but she has little choice. The tractor falls silent, the engine clicking as it cools.

There is barely a breath of wind. In the woods behind, crows complain like old men with tobacco-tempered voices. And then she hears it.

The sound rolls faintly up the valley. Nora’s hand flies to her mouth. Gwen’s heart stutters.

‘What is it, Mummy?’

Nora jumps down from the seed drill. She stares over the fields to the village in the distance, the source of the celebratory clamour.

‘Mummy?’ Tom whines, fidgeting from foot to foot.

‘Bells, Tom,’ Gwen says at last. She clears her throat which is strangely tight. ‘The bells … in the church. Church bells.’

She climbs down from the tractor and walks over to where Nora and Tom now stand side by side. The church steeple is just visible above the folds of land below them. They listen to the pealing bells, awed into silence by the joyous sound.

‘I’ve never heard church bells before,’ Tom chirps up at last.

‘No … no you won’t have.’ Gwen’s hand strays to smooth his hair.

‘It’s over …’ Nora spins towards them, her features illuminated by her exploding smile. ‘Bloody hell, Gwen, that’s it! They’ve done it! It’s over!’ She throws back her head and whoops, her shout echoing across the field. The crows erupt from the woods behind them, flapping skywards, past the ghostly half-moon that still graces the clear morning sky.

‘Tommy boy! The war is over!’ Nora grabs Tom under his armpits. Screeching, she whirls him round and around until he is flying like one of his beloved Spitfires. He giggles with delight, a smile splitting his cheeks, but it fails to mask the hint of uncertainty that lurks behind it.

Gwen does not engage with their joyful exuberance. Instead, she drifts forward, the significance of the tumbling bells weighing heavily on her thoughts.

The war is over.

‘Oh, Gwen!’

She gasps as Nora wraps her in an unexpected embrace, rocking her from side to side and squeezing her so tightly she can barely breathe. Released, she stumbles.

‘Our boys will be coming home at last!’ Nora cries. She whips back to Tom. ‘Tom, your daddy is coming home!’

Tom jumps up and down, matching Nora’s ecstatic cheers with his own, but Gwen can tell he doesn’t fully understand. How can he? Nora is fuelling his excitement for a man he has never met, a man who, for him, fails to exist beyond the grey-and-white photograph that sits on the mantelpiece at home. How can he possibly comprehend his father’s return?

And she alone knows he has no need to, because Jack Ellison won’t be coming home.

He promised her.

He promised her faithfully he wouldn’t.

Chapter Two

Jack

June 1939

‘Jack.’

The sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder startles Jack awake. His eyes flare as he recoils from the touch, his arm rising defensively, his boots scrabbling against the rough boards beneath him. He flails like an upturned beetle struggling to right itself.

‘Easy, lad, easy, you’re all right, now. You’re safe.’

The familiar voice penetrates Jack’s blind panic. The tightness in his chest eases and the blood coursing through his veins slows to a placid flow as his ragged breaths taper. He blinks. Striations of sunlight score his vision like lines in an exercise book. His fragmented memory pulls together until he is at last able to fix himself in time and place. Pain races up his stiff limbs as he shifts himself upright, his legs bent before him. He winces, licking his chapped lips.

‘Ben,’ he says at last, acknowledging the grinning face of the man squatting before him.

‘Aye, you daft beggar. Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’

‘Jesus, but I hurt,’ he groans, stretching his cramped limbs.

‘Aye, well, it can’t be said that a coal wagon is the most deluxe of travelling compartments … but it is the most discreet.’ Ben bobs up to standing. His white collarless shirt is grubby and covered with smuts, while his trousers are as black as the coal he has spent the night shovelling into the train’s furnace.

‘And for that I’m grateful,’ Jack says, taking the hand offered him. He winces again as he is hauled to his feet. He tightens his grip. ‘For that I will always be grateful.’

Ben’s boyish grin fades. He nods, grave now. Jack releases him and, keen to alleviate their solemnity, he runs his palm over his stubbled jaw.

‘Do I look like shite?’

Ben snorts. ‘Jesus, man, you always look like shite.’

Jack smiles in spite of himself. As he lowers his hand, he catches sight of his swollen knuckles, red raw and ingrained now with the coal dust that coats the wagon’s floorboards and floats in the air around them, sparkling like black diamonds in the slanting beams of sunlight. He spots something else. His stomach clenches at the sight of a rusty blemish.

With trembling hands, he unties his neckerchief and pulls it free. He spits on its edge, then works at the coppery speckles until his skin is clean though bruised. When he finally stops, he realises Ben is studying him. Heat floods his cheeks as he stuffs the neckerchief into his trouser pocket.

‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

The quiet question unsettles him. He draws his hand over his mouth and turns towards the slumped heap of coal that occupies the end of the wagon.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well this is the end of the line, I’m afraid. We’ve just pulled onto a siding to let an express pass, but we’ll be heading back up north as soon as it clears. You’d best get off here, while you can.’

‘Right.’ Gathering himself, he leans down to pick up his jacket, folded into a paltry pillow. Ben crosses to the wagon’s broad door. It shunts stiffly on its runners as he opens it just enough for Jack to slip through.

‘Where are we? Do you know?’ Jack asks, shrugging on his coat before reaching for the small knapsack hastily packed the night before.

‘Berkshire somewhere.’ Ben peers out into the brightening light of the new day. ‘As far away from home as I could get you.’ He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans on the doorframe.

‘Berkshire. A bit different to Tyneside then.’

Jack crosses the floor to stand shoulder to shoulder with his friend. They grin at each other, pretending this is little more than a merry jaunt, a boys’ own adventure. He looks out at the grass-banked siding, studded with poppies and clumps of towering foxglove. His fingers wrap around the edge of the door, but he makes no move to leave. A surge of fear holds him in place. He wants nothing more than to anchor himself to Ben and be tethered to his unstinting loyalty. But he knows he cannot. He knows he must leave, yet he continues to linger in the warmth of his friend’s mournful smile.

They both start as a train’s whistle screams through the still morning air. The carriage shudders as the express whips past, the noise so great neither of them attempts to speak. The tracks rattle, then sing in its wake. Ben nudges him with his shoulder, his voice gentle with regret.

‘You must go now, Jack. While you can, lad.’

‘Aye.’ Jack holds out his hand and when Ben grips it, he places his other hand on top.

‘You’ve been a friend when I needed one, Ben. I won’t forget it.’

He jumps down from the wagon, landing both feet on the ballast. He straightens his legs and brushes off the coal dust clinging to his trousers.

‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing now, Jack?’

Jack stifles a bitter laugh. ‘How am I supposed to answer that?’ The stones crump as he grinds them under the scuffed toe of his boot, summoning the courage to look up. ‘I don’t know what else to do, Ben.’

Ben nods, then releases a resigned sigh.

‘Your mam …’

Jack snorts. ‘Won’t even notice I’ve gone … at least not until rent’s due or she needs money for booze. She probably won’t even notice Jenny …’ He shakes his head as his voice fails him. His next words escape as little more than a whisper. ‘I can’t go back, Ben … I can’t risk it.’

‘Aye … I reckon you’re right …’

‘I never meant …’

‘No one can blame you, lad.’

Jack says nothing. Guilt tightens his throat like a drawstring purse. He merely nods to cover his mounting grief and adjusts the weight of the knapsack on his shoulder.

With a groan and a shriek, the train shunts forwards. Ben braces himself in the doorway.

‘We’re off,’ he calls out.

Jack backs away.

‘Take care of yourself, Jack,’ Ben calls again, rocking to the train’s building movement. ‘Try and let me know how you’re getting on.’ The wheels protest as they grate against the tracks. Ben raises his voice again. ‘Be sure to look me up when you get back, you hear?’

Jack raises his hand. He watches as Ben recedes into the distance. Only when he is out of sight does he allow his chin to sink to his chest. He turns and picks his way across the shingle.

They both know he won’t be going back.

Chapter Three

Gwen

8th May 1945

They all ride the Fordson back when it is time to get the cows in for milking. Tom sits astride Gwen’s lap, his hands resting on the steering wheel, giggling as the engine’s vibrations shudder through his small frame, while Nora clings on the back. Gwen can just about hear her high-pitched singing above the steady throb of the tractor.

She slows as they reach the field with the herd in. The cows have already gathered at the gate, eager to be relieved of their swollen udders. Nora waits until the tractor comes to a standstill before jumping down.

‘See you back at the farm!’ she hollers, returning Tom’s salute. Gwen shifts the tractor’s gear stick and rolls the vehicle forward as Nora undoes the gate.

Back in the farmyard, Gwen kills the engine and sets the handbrake as Tom scrambles from her lap and calls for Kip. A sheepdog appears from the open-fronted implement shed and races towards them, its bushy tail beating time as Tom collapses to his knees to welcome the ebullient creature into his embrace, squealing in delighted protest as it laps his face. She pauses for a moment to watch them, fondness softening features she fears have become stern before their time. Calling for the boy to come, she carries on across the yard, but the shrill tring of a bicycle bell stays her progress. A woman with pewter-coloured hair cycles in past the five-bar gate that sags open from the lane.

‘Did you hear?’ she asks as she stops just short of Gwen, planting her sturdy lace-up shoes in a manner that hints at a no-nonsense demeanour.

‘The bells … I heard the bells,’ Gwen says.

‘It’s over. Thank God. In Europe at least.’ The bike chain ticks between them as they walk together towards the shallow steps that rise from the yard to the path running along the back of the house. ‘They say Japan won’t last long now.’

Gwen nods, then calls Tom again. The older woman rests the bicycle against the retaining wall, before removing a bundled apron from the wicker basket on its front. She opens it up with care.

‘Look, spotted these on my way here. I’ll make some soup if you can spare me a drop of cream for it.’

Gwen grins at the welcome sight of fieldcap mushrooms nestled in the scoop of cotton. ‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t, Muriel.’

‘Let’s just hope the end of the war means the end of rationing too,’ Muriel mutters, bundling up the fruits of her foraging. ‘Where’s Nora?’

‘Bringing in the cattle,’ Gwen says, leading the way up the steps.

‘I bet she’s pleased. She’ll be released from service, I suppose.’

‘Not immediately, I wouldn’t have thought. The country still needs feeding, and I can’t manage without her.’

‘No … I’m sure she’ll have to stay for a while yet,’ the woman concedes, though she doesn’t look best pleased by the prospect.

As they reach the back door, Gwen calls again for Tom. Her voice contains a warning note this time that brings him to his feet.

‘Gwen …’ Muriel’s sudden gravitas causes Gwen to pause, her hand resting on the latch. ‘Have you heard from Jack?’

‘No.’

‘But you haven’t heard anything to suggest …’

‘No.’ This time the word comes wearily, battle-worn and fearful.

‘Gwen … what are you going to do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But …’

‘I’m going to do nothing, Muriel, because there is nothing to be done. Jack won’t be coming back.’ She opens the door into the farmhouse kitchen.

Muriel huffs, her grey brows pitching upwards. ‘Certain of that, are you?’ She brushes past Gwen to deposit the parcel of mushrooms on the table. ‘Because I’ll tell you now … I’m not.’

‘He won’t come back, Muriel.’

The old woman turns to face her.

‘Perhaps he won’t, but tell me this: what are you going to do if he does?’

Chapter Four

Jack

June 1939

He walks on in the burgeoning morning light, a foreigner in a strange land. He is used to gunmetal seas stretching, ever restless, to the horizon, not the patchwork of fields that peacefully flow before him now.

Even the air is different, he notes. It is light, pure, trailing scents of flowers and grass rather than the smog and miasma of poverty that his lungs have become hardened to over the years. The scream of factory whistles has been replaced with trilling bird song, while the lowing of cows in the meadow supplants the bellow of a ship’s horn. The unaffected sounds serve to lift his leaden spirits as he tramps on.

Before long, his hunger begins to bite. He swings the knapsack off his shoulder and places it on the road before him so he can rifle through its meagre contents – a change of shirt, folded trousers, spare socks and pants. More precious is his leather roll of woodworking tools, his collection of fine chisels and bevelled gouges. In truth, it was the first thing he grabbed; the only item he could not leave behind.

Tucked into the bottom corner, he finds the apple he purloined from the basin on the drainer as he fled through the back door. He puts the knapsack back together and rises from his haunches before shouldering it once again. As he starts to walk, he sinks his teeth into the apple’s crisp flesh. His mouth fizzes under its sting – a cooking apple, he realises immediately. Its sourness makes him flinch, but he is parched and therefore grateful for its harsh juice. He eats it down to the core.

He has no idea where he is or where he is going. He left his home with no other thought than to run – to flee while he still could. It seemed a good enough plan at the time. As he draws in a deep lungful of air, he reminds himself it is still a good plan. He knows all too well what would have happened if he had stayed; what would happen if he ever went back.

He finds himself on the outskirts of a village almost before he realises it. The fields give way to banked verdant verges bearing a plumage of bracken and topped with trees. Through laden canopies that whisper at his arrival, he spies glimpses of red brick and grey flint. The lane he is on tunnels downwards and, as he rounds the corner, the village blooms before him, houses spreading down into the broad-bottomed valley before rising up to populate the foothills in the distance. His pulse quickens.

It is still early and for the most part all is quiet. An upstairs window in a quaint terraced row rises on its sash as he walks past. The noise catches his attention and he notices a shadow fall back from the windowpane. Somewhere, a dog begins to bark, another soon joining it. He shifts his knapsack to his other shoulder and walks on, ignoring the grit biting through the worn soles of his boots.

The lane winds its way further into the village. A humped bridge takes him across a single-gauge train track and along it he sees a small station, its solitary platform deserted. He carries on and soon a row of shops appears, flanking the road: a butcher’s with its blinds drawn low and the canopy rolled back against its red-brick wall; a drapery with a handwritten advert for dressmaking lessons for 2/6d a week displayed in its window; a sweetshop; a hardware store; a greengrocer’s and general provision.

Soon the main street curves around a grey stone church surrounded by a neatly kept graveyard that sides onto a meadow. Beyond it he discovers two more shops: a tobacconist, and a bakery that exudes the delicious smell of warm bread, though it has yet to open. His stomach gripes, but he walks on.

A pub with a heavy thatched roof and a pretty garden appears where the village gives way to the incline of the hill. The black-glossed door of its public bar is firmly shut, but Jack can almost taste the bitterness of hops. As he pauses to catch his breath, he looks up at the hill that awaits him, before turning back to view the tranquil scene below.

The village might look idyllic, but to him it lacks the familiarity of home, and he struggles to see any raw beauty beneath its primly kept exterior. He misses the cacophony of early morning Newcastle, the ding-ding of the trams, the clanking of cranes in the shipyards, the clatter of train wagons laden with coal. But most of all he misses the magnificence of giant hulls looming above the terraced streets, like Gulliver’s ship arriving in Lilliput, bringing the promise of adventure and riches.

For the first time, he begins to question the wisdom of his decision to run. In the murky streets of his hometown, there was always somewhere to hide. He could merge with the shadows, blend with the crowds. As he looks down on the sleepy streets before him, all quiet and pristine, he realises how conspicuous he is – a noteworthy outsider – and as such, he is vulnerable and exposed.

A tabby cat sneaks out from a gap in the pub’s garden wall and begins to slink across the lane. It stops, regards him dismissively, then carries on its way, disappearing into the long grass opposite. The cat has told him all he needs to know. There is no refuge to be found in such a place as this. He adjusts his knapsack which is beginning to chafe and starts to climb the hill.

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