Charlie tied to her apron strings, where she wanted him.
Charlie had had other ideas, and while his mother had boasted to all and sundry about his job in insurance, he’d used it to pay calls on well-heeled women on their own in the afternoons. Winnie had either turned a blind eye or refused to believe it was possible – just as she’d managed not to notice the marks on Rita when Charlie’s rage turned against his wife. Charlie had finally taken off to the house in Southport, supposedly so the children would be safer, which was managed by a very accommodating woman called Elsie. He’d even put it about that she was his wife. Rita had eventually tracked them down and taken the children away – just in time, as a stray bomb had ripped the front off the once-grand house, and the children had been left standing in the road.
Rita’s parting shot had been to hand Charlie his call-up papers. He was a coward, all bluster and smarm; the only fighting he was capable of was to hit a woman behind closed doors. She had no idea where he was now and she didn’t care. That was Elsie’s problem.
There had been one more document in Winnie’s box that if anything had been even more startling. It was a birth certificate for a child called Ruby, born to Winnie Kennedy, but two years after her husband had died. The father’s name was left blank. This baby would now be coming up to twenty-one years of age. And when Rita had tracked down Charlie and Elsie, the neighbours had been keen to point out that the couple were often in the pub of an evening – but the children were looked after by a young woman called Ruby.
So things had come to an uneasy standoff. The people of Empire Street were mostly a good lot, but prone to suspicion and gossip. Charlie’s disappearance, and the fact that he’d never been seen in uniform, was a gift to the likes of Vera Delaney, who would love to wipe the smug smile off Ma Kennedy’s face and take her down a peg or two. Only a few Feenys knew the full truth. Winnie was slowly going to pieces waiting for her big secret to be blown.
Rita, meanwhile, harboured a secret of her own. When she’d gone to rescue her children, she hadn’t done it alone. Jack had taken her: Jack Callaghan, Kitty’s big brother, her childhood sweetheart and – as she’d finally confirmed to him – Michael’s real father. She’d tried to be a good wife to Charlie, to forget everything that had passed between Jack and her; they’d been too young, and fate in its many forms had made it impossible for them to be together. Now he was back doing his duty, escorting naval convoys across the vital supply routes of the North Atlantic. How she missed him. How she wished they’d somehow found a way all those years ago to overcome all the obstacles – but that hadn’t happened. Now she had to face the fact that her feelings for him had never died, but that she could not have him. The fact that Charlie had broken every bond of duty to her as a husband was neither here nor there. Divorce wasn’t a word you’d ever hear in Empire Street; no matter what a husband had done to his wife, she’d be expected to stand by him. The best she could do was to write. Rita had promised that to Jack and she wouldn’t break her word. The letters were hurting no one, and if they kept his spirits up through those dark nights on the Atlantic, then that’s what she’d do, and to hell with the holier-than-thou attitude of the rest of the world – couldn’t they have those precious words to share, if nothing else? But now Kitty had left, she would have to find another way of receiving his letters to her. Next to the children she adored, the letters were the one chink of light in this miserable life she was stuck with.
A noise at the top of the stairs startled her. A slight figure with huge pale-blue eyes and a frizz of pale- blonde hair emerged, smiling nervously, almost like a frightened child.
Rita took a long look at her, and noted again how much she looked like Winnie, her mother. Not so much her hair, but her nose and her eyes were very similar, though the young woman’s had a gentleness to them which Winnie’s certainly didn’t. Something else for the gossips to get their teeth into … Rita forced herself to get a grip and spoke steadily and comfortingly. ‘Hello, Ruby, come and have a cup of tea, love.’
As Ruby tip-toed down the stairs towards her, Rita looked around her at the shabby, care-worn kitchen – she saw the loose tea that Winnie had tipped into the sink, the chipped cups on the drainer and the cold grate that had been left for her to make up herself. She sighed deeply – if she didn’t have Jack’s letters as a lifeline, then she didn’t know how she would keep on going.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me taking the top bunk?’
Kitty shook her head. ‘No, I don’t like heights at the best of times. I’m much better off down here.’ She thumped the hard pillow into something she thought might be a more comfortable shape. It was never going to be soft, but at least all the bedding was clean. She’d heard horror stories about some service accommodation, and apparently the Land Army girls often had to put up with worse.
‘Bit of a coincidence that we ended up being billeted together, isn’t it?’ asked the elegant young woman from the train, whose name was Laura Fawcett. They’d introduced themselves on the journey, Kitty explaining she’d come from Liverpool, and learning in turn that Laura, although from Yorkshire, had spent lots of time in London and knew it well. ‘I’m glad we got the chance to get acquainted before the others turn up. Looks as if they’re expecting a lot of new recruits.’
Kitty had been taken aback on arrival in the capital and had been glad to have the much more confident Laura to guide her to their new home in North London. Although she was well used to the bustle of Liverpool city centre, this place was on a different scale. The sheer number of people was overwhelming, many of them in uniform of one sort or another, all weaving around each other at baffling speed. Kitty had gripped her new friend’s arm, totally disoriented. Laura had taken it in her stride, mildly annoyed to find that holes in the road meant she couldn’t take the route she’d originally planned, but swiftly deciding upon a new one. She’d plunged into the Underground and Kitty had followed immediately behind, terrified at the thought of getting separated. That had been her introduction to the Northern Line.
Now Kitty glanced uneasily around the large room they were in, full of bunk beds in readiness for the arrival of trainee Wrens. She was used to sharing a house with her brothers, and not having a minute to herself, but her bedroom, basic though it was, had always been her sanctuary. She’d done her best to soften it with her eiderdown and the few bits and pieces that remained of her mother’s possessions. Here there would be room only for the most functional items. She wondered what sort of bedroom Laura had had and what her home was like – nothing like Empire Street, she was sure of that.
Laura appeared to have no such doubts and finished packing away the small amount of clothing they were recommended to bring in no time, somehow managing to cram in some very elegant-looking frocks as well. ‘This place must have been a school, just look at it. Certainly wasn’t made to sleep in.’ She glanced around at the huge windows and high ceilings. ‘Bet it’ll be freezing. Oh well, maybe they’ll work us so hard we won’t care. Can’t be as cold as up north, that’s for sure. I’m used to the wind howling over the moors so I probably shan’t even notice. How about you?’
Kitty smiled, remembering the force of the westerly gales that came in over the Atlantic with such regularity. ‘Oh, that won’t worry me,’ she said lightly. ‘We have to put up with that all the time in Liverpool. At least they’ll give us uniforms to keep out the worst of it. I’ve been wearing dungarees for work in the NAAFI and this uniform is much nicer – warmer too.’
Laura held up the bluette overall she’d been issued with. ‘It’s a bit stiff, isn’t it? It’ll be itchy as anything.’
Kitty grinned, thinking that her pretty new friend probably wasn’t used to anything but the finest material, and would not have had to wear anything practical, certainly not like the often-patched clothes she’d had to put on for scrubbing down the NAAFI canteen after it closed every day. She smoothed down the blue-and- white bedspread on her narrow bunk, running her hands over the anchor motif. She couldn’t help wondering what her brother Jack would be doing, out there on his