Wartime at Liberty's Read online

  Fiona Ford

  * * *

  WARTIME AT LIBERTY’S

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  About the Author

  Fiona Ford is the author of the Liberty Girls series, which is set in London during the Second World War.

  Fiona spent many years as a journalist writing for women’s weekly and monthly magazines. She has written two novels under the pseudonym, Fiona Harrison, as well as two sagas under her own name in the Spark Girls series.

  Fiona lives in Berkshire with her husband.

  Also available by Fiona Ford

  Christmas at Liberty’s

  The Liberty Girls

  For Sylvie and Vic Lobina with love

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people who have helped bring this book to life and first up in what I shall try to make a short list is my wonderful agent Kate Burke at Blake Friedmann. Kate is always on hand for brilliant advice and lots of coffee and I’m forever grateful to her for putting up with me. Next up must surely be my phenomenal editor Emily Griffin who has a brilliant habit of making everything I write just so much better. Emily, I don’t know how you do it but I’m very grateful that you do – thank you.

  I would also like to thank the rest of the team at Arrow who work so hard on the covers, the marketing, the general admin and really the whole kit and caboodle. You’re a brilliantly talented team and I’m forever grateful to you for making the Liberty Girls series what it is today.

  Thanks too to my brilliant author pals: Kate Thompson, Dani Atkins, Sasha Wagstaff, Jean Fullerton, Faith Bleasdale, Rosie Hendry and last, but definitely not least, Elaine Everest. Your support, help and general fabulousness make this job so very much easier and I’m delighted on a daily basis to have you in my life.

  My fantastic family and friends – thank you for answering my pointless and daft questions. You are all far too patient with me and I hope you know how much I appreciate you all.

  To the wonderful Beverley Ann Hopper and Sandra Blower. You two have championed this series from the beginning and without your support and the rest of the fabulous Book Lovers Group you run so tirelessly, I can’t imagine I would have half the readers that I do. Thank you so much for loving my Liberty Girls as much as I do.

  Finally I should like to thank you, lovely reader, for picking up the book and joining me on this very special journey. I love hearing from you and if you have any comments or wartime memories to share, or if you just want to chat all things Liberty’s, then please drop me a note via my Facebook page at: facebook.com/fionafordauthor.

  Prologue

  August 1942

  The sight of him standing at the top of Hampstead Heath took her breath away. He had always been her past, her present and her promise of tomorrow. But now, as Florence Canning watched her husband Neil’s blue-green eyes glower with anger, she wasn’t sure she recognised the man standing before her.

  ‘You have given up singing like I asked you to, haven’t you, Flo?’ he said, his voice so quiet that Flo struggled to hear him.

  ‘Yes, of course I have,’ she responded. ‘You know that.’

  ‘So why don’t I believe you?’ he said. ‘Flo, let me ask you one last time: are you still singing?’

  Flo gulped as she gazed into his face. Catching the clench of his jaw and the tightness in his neck, she knew that it was time to tell him the truth. She might have had her reasons for lying to him, and for continuing to sing when he had expressly told her not to, but she couldn’t carry it off any longer.

  ‘Yes, I am still singing,’ she admitted.

  Neil’s cheeks pinked with fury. ‘So why lie to me?’

  Flo felt a grim sense of dread. She wondered that herself now. Why hadn’t she written to him and come clean? Why hadn’t she put her foot down and told him that music ran through her blood? It always had and it always would. She and her Aunt Aggie, who had brought her up as if she were her own mother, had always sung everywhere together. Regardless of whether she was singing at school, at church or with her aunt at home, Flo felt a joy like no other when she lost herself in the music. She used to love accompanying her aunt when she went to perform as after-dinner entertainment, and seeing the change that came over Aggie when she sang. When she died a couple of months earlier, Flo had found relief from her overwhelming sadness by taking over Aggie’s old singing evening at the local pub.

  ‘I couldn’t give it up, Neil,’ she said with searing honesty, ‘it made me feel connected to Aggie. She was never happier than when she was singing for an appreciative audience and that’s how I feel too. It’s been hard for me since she died. You’re gone and now so is she. There’s an ache in my heart that can only be healed when I sing …’

  Her voice trailed off as Neil shook his head in sadness. He looked past her shoulder and out on to the heath beyond. Flo followed his gaze, trying to understand what he was thinking. He looked as if he had listened to her, taken her words seriously, but she wasn’t sure.

  ‘I appreciate I might have been a bit heavy-handed when I wrote telling you not to sing,’ he said eventually, his gaze coming back to meet hers. ‘But, Flo, what really upsets me is that you lied to me.’

  Flo felt her cheeks flush with shame. The one thing she had always known about Neil was that he hated dishonesty. His own mother’s lies had torn Neil’s family apart when he was young.

  Neil’s voice was now so low that Flo struggled to hear him. ‘After my mother took up with that singer, the lies that spouted from her mouth and the excuses she made while they carried on … They made my father’s life a misery before they eventually ran off. I can’t stand any kind of betrayal, and here you are – my own wife – lying to me and I feel sick.’

  Flo nodded, the tears falling down her cheeks now. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I suppose I just couldn’t find the
courage to tell you I didn’t want to stop. I was scared of what you would say. I didn’t mean to let you down.’

  ‘But you did, and I don’t know if I can forgive you,’ Neil replied, his voice breaking with emotion.

  Cold fear flooded Flo’s heart. ‘You can’t mean that. I made a mistake.’

  ‘Yes, you did, and at the moment I’m so angry with you I can barely look at you. I’m going back to the ship early.’

  ‘Neil, please—’ Flo begged only for Neil to cut her off.

  ‘I can’t, Flo.’

  With that he dropped a kiss on to her forehead and walked away.

  As she watched his retreating back disappear over the brow of the hill, Flo felt engulfed in panic. What had she done?

  Chapter One

  Two months later

  As the final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ came to a close, a polite round of applause rang throughout the little front room in Islington. Wiping away her tears, Florence Canning lifted her chin and clapped the loudest, aware that as chief mourner, it was up to her to show her gratitude for the wake thrown in her husband Neil’s honour.

  Singing might have been the last thing she felt like doing, but Florence, or Flo as she was better known, was well aware that sing-songs were the norm in the street and always had been. Whether it was a wedding, christening, or in this case a funeral, song had always marked an occasion. Usually Flo was only too happy to join in or, if her Auntie Aggie was singing, she would accompany her on the piano. Flo had grown up around music and Aggie used to joke that Flo had burst into song long before she could walk. She certainly had the looks for it. With her twinkling green eyes, peaches and cream complexion and tall, slim frame, Flo knew how to make the best of herself, especially when it came to putting on a performance.

  But not any more. As far as Flo was concerned there would be no more singing, not today, not tomorrow, in fact never again. She had made a silent vow that she would never so much as hum, and despite the fact she could tell her father-in-law, John, had finished and was now encouraging her to get up and give them a song, Flo kept her eyes fixed on the floor. She didn’t care how much people tried to cajole her: singing was not for her, not any more.

  Instead, Flo shook her head and moved out into the cramped hallway. She sank on to the bottom step of the staircase, the wood creaking beneath her weight as she did so. The familiar noise made her smile. Funny how in one moment you can feel as if your world has shifted, while in another it can seem as though everything is exactly the same. This bottom step had creaked in just the same way when her Uncle Ray was alive and had been the signature noise to so many memories, including the first time she had kissed Neil goodbye after he joined the Navy. He had stood on the very same step, the wood groaning in as much inward protest as Flo, as he promised to return home safe and sound once the war was over.

  She pushed the memory from mind and leaned her head against the bannister. The sad fact was Neil had been unable to keep that promise. He had been killed serving on the HMS Veteran last month. The destroyer had been hit by two German torpedoes south of Iceland in a devastating attack and there had been no survivors.

  Today, as she had said goodbye to her husband at his funeral, the realisation that she would never see him again had hit her squarely in the stomach. Unbidden tears began to well again. Flo bit furiously on the insides of her cheeks to try and stop the sobs. She would save them for later, when she was alone. Aggie had taught her that.

  ‘Nobody wants to see your tears, sweetheart,’ she had always said. ‘Save them for behind closed doors.’ And that was precisely what she would do when everyone had gone home. She would weep and weep until there were no more tears left to be shed. In the space of twelve months she had married the love of her life, said goodbye to the aunt who had been like a mother to her and now she had buried her husband.

  As the sound of singing started up again, Flo looked around the humble home that her aunt had left to her in her will. She had lived in this two-up, two-down in the heart of North London since she was five years old and had never wanted to be anywhere else.

  The autumn sunshine cast a rich glow across the parquet floor as it poured in through the glass front door, and wearily Flo got to her feet. This house felt like someone else’s house now. In fact her entire life felt as if it belonged to someone else. The things she had once loved, the trips to the pictures, her friends and even her job at Liberty’s had all lost their sparkle. Without Neil, Flo wasn’t sure who she was any more or what she was supposed to do with her life.

  The one thing she knew she was supposed to do was make sure today’s guests were well fed and looked after. She might have no enthusiasm for it, but she owed her husband that much at least. Placing her hand on the doorknob to go back into the parlour, she caught sight of Dorothy Hanson, Mary Holmes-Fotherington, Alice Milwood, Rose Harper and Jean Rushmore. Her friends and fellow Liberty girls were all gathered in the kitchen, talking in hushed whispers.

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ she heard Mary say. ‘She’s barely eaten a bally thing since the news about Neil broke.’

  ‘She’s lost her husband,’ Alice fumed. ‘Of course she’s not herself. Be patient, Mary.’

  ‘It’s not about being patient, it’s about concern, Alice,’ Mary whispered loudly. ‘She’s here in this house all alone …’

  ‘She’s not alone, she’s got me and Bess lodging with her,’ Jean piped up indignantly. ‘We’re keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘With the greatest of respect, Jean, you and your sister don’t know Flo like we do,’ said Alice. ‘I know you’re doing your best, but, well, it’s possible we might be able to do more.’

  ‘But that has to come from Flo herself,’ Dot put in firmly. ‘She’s a grown woman, Alice. If she wants help she has to come to us; we can’t nanny her. Trust me: I’ve lost a husband; that’s the last thing she needs.’

  Flo could stand it no longer and walked towards her friends, chin lifted and her mind made up. ‘Finally one of you has got something to say I can agree with. Dot’s right, I am a grown woman, why are you talking about me like this?’

  ‘We’re just worried,’ Rose insisted, her round tortoiseshell spectacles slipping down her nose. ‘We only want to help. You’ve shut yourself away when you should be leaning on us.’

  ‘And you haven’t been back to work since Neil died last month,’ Mary said gently, her raven bobbed hair gleaming. ‘Don’t you think it would be good for you to return to Liberty’s?’

  Flo said nothing. She had no interest in returning to work, which in truth surprised her as much as it did the girls. She had always thought of Liberty’s as her second home. Like Alice, she had started there as a Saturday girl before swiftly moving up the ranks to become fabric manager. She had even briefly been promoted to deputy store manager earlier in the year, after her predecessor, Mabel Matravers, had been sent to prison for making illegal hooch. However, Flo had found the role too isolating, preferring life on the shop floor amongst the customers and fabric she had come to adore.

  But since the terrible day when a buff-coloured telegram marked ‘Priority’ had arrived at Liberty’s, Flo no longer viewed the store as her second home, instead she saw it as a place of misery. All she could remember was how she had rushed down to the stock room, and read the words regret to inform you your husband Ordinary Seaman Neil Alan Canning was killed immediately. She had been so shocked that she had been sick all over a roll of one of the most expensive silks.

  That night after she had received the news Flo had thought she would die from grief. She had felt a sharper, deeper pain than any she had experienced before. For hours, Flo had lain in their marital bed, eiderdown wrapped around her, with Neil’s pillow clutched to her chest. She wept for the boy she had played with as a child, the man he had become and for the future they had been robbed of.

  Her manager Mr Button had told Flo she could take off as much time as she needed while she grieved and organised the funeral. It had been
an offer she had been happy to take, much to the surprise of her friends, who had been convinced that working at the store would be her salvation. But Flo had lost her appetite for the work she had once loved. The store was tainted now; she wasn’t sure she could ever face that department again.

  ‘We’ve been doing a bit of thinking, darlin’,’ Dot said, gingerly rubbing Flo’s back as if she were no more than a baby. ‘We wondered if you might like to come and stay with me for a bit.’

  Flo looked at her blankly. ‘But I have a house. I live here.’

  ‘We know that,’ Alice replied, rolling her blue eyes impatiently, ‘but you would have a bit more support at our place.’

  ‘We thought there might be a few less memories there,’ Dot offered. ‘When my George died all those years ago, my sister bundled me up and made me stay with her for a few weeks. At the time I thought she was being an interfering old bag, but now I know it was the best thing for me.’

  ‘So you’re making me stay with you?’ Flo asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘No—’ Mary said, only for Dot to interrupt.

  ‘Yes, darlin’, we’re making you stay with us. I’ve plenty of room, especially now George’s sister’s girl no longer needs a room off me.’

  ‘Violet?’ Mary mused, at the mention of Dot’s niece. ‘I thought she was going to stay with you because she had a new job at Marks and Spencer.’

  ‘She was. But she’s been put in a branch up west and found lodgings with a girl her own age. Which is why,’ Dot continued, turning back to Flo, ‘I’ve got room for you. And yes, we’re also making you go back to work. It’s been almost three weeks; it’s time. Life goes on and you must too.’

  Flo said nothing as the sound of laughter drifted through the kitchen from the parlour. The girls were right; life carried on and she had to get back to her job, and by the looks of things stay with her friends for a bit. Just because Neil had gone didn’t mean the world had stopped, no matter how much she wanted it to. She stared angrily out of the kitchen window, her gaze falling on to the courtyard garden filled with growing vegetables. Even the blazing hot sun on this unusually warm October day was a reminder she had very little control over what happened in life. If there were any justice it would be raining. Big fat cold raindrops with miserable, dark grey skies.