Molly's Christmas Orphans Read online

  I’d like to dedicate this book to ‘the Forces’ Sweetheart’, Dame Vera Lynn, who celebrated her hundredth birthday in 2017, the same year in which Molly is published.

  Dame Vera was born in East Ham, a stone’s throw from the Isle of Dogs, East London, the setting of my novels. Her remarkable and unique singing voice brought much needed hope and consolation for our troops and their loved ones during the turbulent days of the Second World War.

  Prologue

  London’s East End, June 1940

  ‘Molly, love, the PM’s on the wireless! Come upstairs and we’ll listen to what he’s got to say. I’ve turned the shop sign to “Closed” so we won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Someone’s bound to want serving, Dad,’ Molly Swift objected, narrowing her observant brown eyes at the busy street outside. ‘And it’s our customers who come first.’

  ‘Even if Winnie is addressing the nation?’

  ‘Even if it’s the good Lord himself.’

  Bill Keen smiled ruefully as he approached his daughter, who stood weighing out the potatoes. Very slowly he took her arm and drew her round to face him. ‘I know all about our customers, ducks. Your mum and me ran this shop before you was born. So bugger the customers for an hour. Today it’s our chance to find out from the horse’s mouth just what’s going on over the Channel. France is where Ted is, fighting his heart out on the beaches. Your husband, my son-in-law, beloved to us both. So set aside your concerns for the store and its patrons and let’s go upstairs.’

  Molly understood precisely what her father was saying. But it was these softly coated words she was reluctant to hear; it was far less painful to imagine Ted safe and sound instead of listening to the reports on the Home Service, or reading the upsetting headlines of the newspapers. It was bad enough the customers asking after Ted. She knew they meant well but, poor souls, many were already touched by tragedy. Sometimes they’d come in the shop to buy their ration of tea or jam or a slice of bacon if there was one available, and yet she could tell it was for another reason altogether. Women needed to share their losses. A flicker of hope would ignite in their eyes as they spoke of their soldier or sailor or airman – just as if he was standing there.

  Molly had paused on many occasions since war was declared between Britain and Germany in September of last year, to listen to tales of separation and loss, some ending choked by tears, with heads bowed as the spirit of that brave departed soul faded. So she had given a kind word, a hug, a bit of discount here and there, or an extra helping out of her own ration as small compensation.

  And always she’d kept the faith – her faith – that Ted, her living and breathing man, would return with his fellows of the brave British Expeditionary Force, not necessarily a hero or with the commendations that every man deserved in this bedlam of war, but alive! This was her prayer. Her hope. Her belief. And as long as she remained behind the counter, giving sympathy to others, she could go on in her world, believing in the very best possible outcome. This store was her and Ted’s livelihood, an extension of their combined efforts for the past five years. Surely it could never be taken away?

  ‘Molly, come now, ducks. It’s time.’ Bill Keen slipped his hard-working, capable fingers around his daughter’s arm and firmly drew her towards the stairs.

  ‘Dad, I’d rather not. I have the orders to set up.’

  ‘Orders can wait,’ her father objected as Molly racked her brains to get out of the uncomfortable request. Then, tilting his head to one side, he said softly, ‘Molly, you are my lovely girl and full of spirit when it comes to running this shop. Ted’s been away since November last and you’ve carried on valiantly. There’s not a customer you don’t serve with a smile and often a little bit extra. Oh yes, don’t think I’m a blind old codger, ducks. I’ve still got me wits about me, if not me hair.’

  Molly smiled, embarrassed to know she’d been caught in the act. ‘It’s just they’ve got such sad stories, Dad. With all their men away and having to manage on their own—’

  ‘And so are you on your own,’ said Bill, cutting her short.

  ‘I’ve got you, Dad, don’t forget.’

  ‘Why, I’m barely able to lift a sack of spuds these days!’ he returned jovially. ‘When I sold you and Ted the shop five years ago, I was on me last legs.’

  At this Molly laughed, her brown eyes lighting up and reflecting the colour of her thick chestnut hair coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. ‘You were nothing of the sort,’ she disagreed. ‘You did us the biggest favour of our lives. You knew we had to get our teeth into something after . . . after Emily.’ Here she stopped and took a breath. The memories of her two-year-old daughter who had been so cruelly taken from them in the flu outbreak of 1935 were still raw, still bitter-sweet.

  ‘Right, chin up, lovely,’ Bill replied staunchly, for Molly knew he had mourned his granddaughter as keenly as she and Ted. ‘We’ll sit with our sandwiches and listen to Winston,’ he encouraged. ‘The papers say that 220 of our navy ships and 700 small craft are already sailed for the rescue. I wouldn’t mind betting the BEF boys will be climbing aboard this minute. First in, first out – stands to reason, don’t it?’

  Molly nodded, giving in as she had known she would, before unbuttoning her gabardine overall, looping it over the peg and mounting the stairs to the large and airy flat above.

  Molly’s stomach clenched the minute she heard the cut-glass accent of the announcer. ‘The miracle of deliverance of Allied troops’ – as it was so delicately put – ‘is now in progress. The operation to bring back thousands of our retreating troops trapped by the German army in Dunkirk, is almost accomplished.’

  Molly dared to breathe, though the word ‘almost’ hung like a scythe in the air, ready to fall. And then it came, the hidden facts, slowly fed to the public. The strategic operations were complete, but not before the Luftwaffe had reduced the town of Dunkirk to rubble and destroyed 235 vessels and 106 aircraft, claiming, so far, at least 5,000 lives.

  To add to Molly’s confusion, it was revealed a further 22,000 Allied troops had been rescued from other ports: Cherbourg, St Malo, Brest and St Nazaire, including those from the battle-weary BEF units of which Ted was one. Was this the good news she had been waiting for?

  ‘God willing, he’ll be home soon,’ declared Bill as he sat with his knees spread, leaning forward in his armchair, making a concerted effort to listen to every syllable coming from the walnut-encased wireless set. ‘Hear that? Hundreds of boats, love – hundreds! All out there, braving the waves and the gunfire and stealing our lads from the clutches of the sea. Ted could plant his feet on English soil any time now.’

  Sitting opposite in her late mother’s chair, Molly anxiously clutched the crocheted covers on each stout arm. The feel of them reminded her that if her mother was present this very moment, twelve years after her passing, she’d be offering her own brand of maternal wisdom that Molly missed and needed so much.

  ‘If only your mum was here,’ Bill said, echoing Molly’s thoughts as he patted his pockets, stood to search for his pipe on the mantelpiece, found it and stuffed it, unlit, into his mouth as he flopped down again. ‘She’d be down at the docks this very moment. Checking every face, seeing Ted well in advance of him seeing her.’ He laughed robustly, shaking his head, until slowly the smile slipped from his lips and he looked at Molly with questioning eyes. ‘It’s not too late for us to nip down to the water, love. Check along the wharfs. See where they’re disembarking. It’s said the Little Boats are bringing them back to nigh on every port in the country.’

  Molly slid her hand to her neck, easing the tight muscles with her fingertips. She couldn’t wait to hold Ted in her arms, nor to savour the kiss he would lay on her lips wh
en they met. She had no words to describe the expectation of her hopes and dreams. It wouldn’t be fair – it just wouldn’t – to take Ted away from sharing them too.

  ‘No, Dad. There’s a chance we might miss him. I wouldn’t want him walking into an empty store without the welcome he deserves.’

  Molly averted her gaze and slipped back into the world she had created. A world of routine and reliability. A war might be raging, but she had her shop. Her customers depended on her and she depended on them. It was the only way she knew of existing in a world full of uncertainty.

  She would be patient, listen a few minutes more to please her father, then go downstairs, put on her overall and turn the sign. Her customers would come in, one by one, or sometimes in groups, enjoying the meeting place as much as their purchases.

  Then, towards teatime, her attention would be taken by a shadow. A figure. The man would come walking up Roper Street towards the shop’s front door. A familiar stride; the Blakeys on his boots scuffing the crowns of the pebbles . . . and she’d run out and into Ted’s arms and never – ever – let him go again!

  ‘Listen, Molly, will you, it’s him! The prime minister of England, by God!’

  Molly stirred, only half listening, reluctant to emerge from her dreams. But the defiant words echoed through the speaker of the wireless and stole away her peace.

  ‘We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender . . .’

  ‘Never,’ Bill Keen agreed, with clenched jaw and raised fist. ‘Never!’

  Suddenly an icy panic filled Molly. ‘Never’ was such a very long time. And how could she face this ‘never’ without Ted if, God forbid, Ted’s life was the price she had to pay for Britain defending her soil?

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter One

  Six months later, 29 December 1940

  Molly was sitting, frozen to the bone, in the hospital corridor where some hours ago, according to the battered wall clock, a nurse had instructed her to wait. In that long eternity of time her mind had been replaying the moments after the bomb had exploded just a short way down from the shop. She could still hear the air raid warden warning her to stay perfectly still. But in her dazed state, she wasn’t aware she was covered in rubble.

  Her priority had been her dad, who lay prone on the floor of their general store. On top of him were rafters and plaster, leaving a gaping hole in the ceiling.

  All the while the plaintive cries from the injured and distressed in the street outside had echoed in through the shattered window. A kind of smog had swirled into the atmosphere. The poisonous stink of cordite had made it almost impossible to breathe.

  ‘Careful as you go, Molly. The ceiling above you is unstable. It could collapse any moment,’ Mr Stokes, the warden, had shouted when he realized it was too late to stop Molly from stumbling over to her father’s side. She’d been like an animal, burrowing away with her bare hands at the mountain of debris.

  With a jolt, Molly returned to the moment and the comparative safety of the hospital. There were so many casualties here! Some managing to walk, all bandaged, bruised and bloodied. Others, the not-so-lucky ones, many suffering from shrapnel wounds and crushed limbs, were being rushed away on stretchers.

  Molly shook herself determinedly.

  She couldn’t weaken now.

  She’d suffered tragedy six months ago, losing Ted at Dunkirk, and yet somehow she’d held on to life. At first she’d lost all interest in the store, the business she and Ted had worked so hard to build up after Bill’s retirement. She’d gone through the motions, giving the customers what sympathy she had left, but she felt drained dry. Emotionally she hadn’t much left in reserve. And if hadn’t been for her dad – well, she might very well have faded away.

  ‘Rise and shine, lovely,’ he would say every morning, attempting to fill Ted’s place the best he could. ‘We’ve work to do. Let’s get the blinds up and the sign turned.’

  And so, where once she had sprung from bed eager to start the day, instead she’d crawled reluctantly into her clothes, plastered a smile on her lips and pretended. Just as she had done after Emily five years before.

  Shivering again, a combination of winter’s cold and shock, Molly pulled back her shoulders. It was her dad who mattered now. It was her turn to find strength for him, just as he had for her.

  Why hadn’t the doctor come to explain what was wrong? She understood how hard-pressed the staff were, especially as the raids were still continuing over London. But she had been sitting here long enough.

  The minutes were crawling by so slowly, and with each one, new fears clamoured inside her head. You’ll lose him too. You’ll have no one. This is the end, Molly . . .

  And then, through her threatening tears, she saw the child.

  A little girl, no more than three, with tousled blonde curls hanging damply around a dirty face. Her tears had etched muddy tracks down her cheeks and plopped onto the cloth of her ill-fitting coat. She was trailing after a dark-haired woman who wore an expression of barely disguised annoyance at the child’s presence.

  Molly averted her eyes and waited for them to pass. The little girl reminded her of Emily. But she couldn’t think of Emily now. She couldn’t let in any more pain. And she would, if she looked at that lovely blonde hair and blue eyes – just like Emily’s.

  So she kept her back stiff and her gaze upon the wall opposite, noting the details; cracked seams and peeling plaster, minuscule holes where propaganda posters had been pinned and fallen away. But as much as she tried, Molly was unable to keep her attention focused. She felt the child’s warmth, felt her presence. And before she knew what was happening, the woman had taken the seat beside her.

  ‘This kid’s nothing to do with me,’ the stranger snapped, catching Molly’s glance. ‘Dunno who she belongs to. Keeps following me around. I’ve asked the volunteers to take her. But do you think they’ll oblige? No! They just tell me to wait at the desk and register. But I’ve got me own troubles to sort. Me injured husband’s somewhere in this bloody awful place. I ain’t got time to see to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Molly said, trying not to seem unfriendly. ‘Have you asked for help at the WVS? Or tried the First Aid post?’

  ‘They just tell you to wait your turn. No special staff to help with waifs and strays.’

  ‘But someone must be dealing with lost children!’ Molly challenged.

  ‘I told you, I’ve got me own troubles,’ came the terse reply. ‘As it is, I’m dying to go to the lav. Would you stay with her for a minute? I’m almost peeing me knickers.’

  Molly wanted to say that she, too, had family injured here in the hospital. And that if she was called by the nurse she would have to go immediately. But the woman was already on her feet.

  ‘Thanks, love. I won’t be long.’

  Alone with the little girl, who stood staring up at her, Molly looked around for help. All she could see was volunteer aids helping to carry the stretchers. She rose to her feet and was about to ask one of them, when an almighty explosion rocked the building. The walls seemed to shake and little whorls of dust fell down from the high ceilings.

  ‘Quickly, take shelter in the basement!’ one aid yelled at her before making off with the wounded victim prostrate on the stretcher.

  But she quickly realized there was no time to find safety. The drone of the planes above was answered by the boom-boom of the anti-aircraft batteries, and the thud of falling bombs came closer.

  Instinctively, she grabbed the child and fell to the floor. The earth shook beneath them and she tightened her arms around the little body, whispering any words of comfort she could think of. Words that brought back Emily and the yawning gap of grief after she had passed away.

  It was as she was whispering that Molly felt a strange calm wash over her. Even if I die, she thought, Lyn will
look after Dad. And there will be someone, somewhere, to care for this little girl.

  And she, Molly, would at last be reunited with her lost family, Ted and Emily.

  When finally the all-clear sounded, Molly raised her head. The noise of the aircraft was now distant and she took a choked breath, prising herself gently apart from the little girl.

  The lights slowly returned, one by one, flickering at first, and figures emerged like ghosts from doors and even cupboards. An acrid smell polluted the air and a fine veil of dust skittered around the old building’s cavities.

  She moved slowly, helping the child to her feet and dusting down her coat. ‘It’s all right, Curly Top,’ Molly soothed. ‘The planes have gone. They won’t be back just yet.’

  The big blue eyes, as round as saucers, just stared at her.

  ‘We’ll sit here together, shall we?’ Molly coaxed, wondering what she should do next as she lifted the tiny scrap onto her lap. ‘Is your mummy here in the hospital?’

  In answer to the many questions Molly asked, there was no response. Just a long, baleful stare and eventually a very wide yawn.

  Molly found herself stroking the unruly blonde tresses filled with all manner of tangles. And before very long, there was the soft sound of snoring against her chest.

  Molly looked right and left, past the porters and patients and medical staff all going about their business once again. Would the dark-haired woman return? It seemed unlikely. After all, she’d said she had a family of her own to consider.

  ‘Mrs Swift?’ A hand landed gently on Molly’s arm and she looked up to see a nurse, not the one she had spoken to previously, but a nurse all the same.

  Molly nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s me!’

  ‘The doctor sent me to look for you. Are you all right? The last raid was very close. You should have taken shelter in the hospital’s basement.’

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ Molly said hurriedly. ‘What’s wrong with Dad, do you know?’