The Girls in Blue Read online

  Also by Fenella J. Miller

  The Spitfire Girl Series

  The Spitfire Girl

  The Spitfire Girl in the Skies

  A Wedding for the Spitfire Girl

  The Spitfire Girl: Over & Out

  THE GIRLS IN BLUE

  Fenella J. Miller

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Fenella J. Miller

  The moral right of Fenella J. Miller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E ISBN: 9781838933470

  PB ISBN: 9781800245976

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For Charlie Harrison Miller

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  September 1939

  The church was packed and the vicar was in the middle of his interminable sermon when the verger appeared from the vestry and hurried to the base of the pulpit.

  Jane guessed what the interruption might be. Talking was strictly forbidden but she risked the wrath of her father to touch her mother’s arm and whisper to her. ‘It’s war, isn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Be silent. You are in God’s house.’

  Mum squeezed her hand and muttered a quick apology. Jane shivered and immediately looked down, not daring to meet his eyes. She was the one who had spoken first so it would be her that would be punished.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the vicar said quietly. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the lectern. ‘We are at war with Germany. Hitler has refused to leave Poland.’

  There was a moment of silence and then the congregation forgot the rules and began to talk amongst themselves. The service was abandoned. A quick blessing was said by the vicar and then everyone poured out, eager to get home and discover for themselves what was going to happen next.

  ‘Mr Hadley, will there be a run on the bank, do you think?’ A flustered woman forgot herself and grabbed her father’s arm as he walked past.

  ‘There will not, madam. Kindly excuse me – I have urgent business to attend to at home.’

  Jane knew what this comment meant. The business he referred to was beating her for her disobedience. The crowd surged forward, separating her from her parents. Some instinct of self-preservation made her slip backwards through them until she was inside the church again.

  She would have to go home as she had nowhere else to go. But not now – she would postpone the inevitable as long as possible. However much she tried, she could not prevent the shivering.

  ‘My dear girl, this cannot go on,’ the Reverend Jackson spoke quietly from behind her. ‘You must come with me. I’ll not have you return to more abuse.’

  The vicar and his wife were the only people in the village who knew what took place behind the smartly painted front door with its immaculate brass knocker. They had found her sobbing at the back of the church after a particularly brutal beating earlier that year. Things had been better when she’d been at school – she only had to get through the school holidays – she was safe when away from him.

  ‘I’m eighteen tomorrow. I’m going to volunteer to join the WAAF. I’ve just been waiting for Mr Chamberlain to make that announcement. I want to leave in the morning and my bag’s packed. I have to go back to collect it.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing, Jane. I know you told me not to interfere but I’m not going to stand aside a second time. Does he abuse your mother as well?’

  ‘She’s terrified of him, but I’ve never seen him hit her – but I don’t know what happens when I’m not there.’

  ‘My wife and I have always thought Mr Hadley over-strict with you – an occasional spanking for a small child is all very well but you’re an adult. You’re a lovely young woman and what he does to you is unacceptable.’

  Mrs Jackson bustled down the aisle. ‘Come along, my dear, we’ll leave by the back door. Tomorrow you can go to London and offer your services to the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. You’ll never have to go back to that dreadful man again.’

  Jane’s heart was thudding as she followed the vicar’s wife through the churchyard and into the vicarage garden through the small wicket gate. The voices of the departing congregation carried quite clearly across the grass and tombstones and at any moment she expected to hear that dreaded voice demanding that she return at once if she knew what was good for her.

  Not until she was safely inside the vicarage did her hands unclench. That man could hardly barge in here and drag her out.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down at the table and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. We all had a bit of a shock in church today and it must be even harder for you.’ As Mrs Jackson busied herself at the old-fashioned range Jane was able to steady her breathing, regain her composure and begin to take stock of the situation.

  ‘Arthur and I have talked about that man more than once. How he could sit in the pew every Sunday as if butter wouldn’t melt when he was so wicked, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure that he’s not the only parent who thinks a good hiding is an acceptable form of punishment when any of their offspring disobey or misbehave. Children are regularly caned, get the strap or some such thing whilst in school.’

  ‘My two boys got the occasional slapped leg, but no more than that.’

  ‘I had a brother you know, a twin, but he died at birth. My father’s never forgiven me for that.’

  A mug of tea was placed in front of her and she cradled her hands around it. She shook her head when she was offered a piece of fruit cake.

  ‘You are far too thin, my dear, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. Were you not fed either?’

  ‘I’m naturally slender, Mrs Jackson, but have lost weight since I left school in July. I just can’t swallow food when sitting at the same table as him.’

  ‘Arthur said you were looking for a secretarial job. Did you learn to be a shorthand typist at your grand school?’

  ‘I
did – the headmistress suggested it might be a useful skill even for the daughters of the very rich who intend to marry well and do nothing at all with their lives.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to change and no mistake. This war’s been coming for a long time and everyone will have to do their bit. Both my boys signed up last year and both are pilot officers – James is a fighter pilot and David will be training the new boys.’

  ‘Then at least one of your sons won’t be in constant danger once the fighting starts.’

  Her tea remained undrunk. She jumped every time she heard a noise, dreading who might appear in the door. Mrs Jackson stopped trying to engage her in conversation and continued with the preparation for Sunday lunch. The wireless crackled and hummed, almost drowning out the suitably serious music that was being played.

  Then the back door opened and the vicar called out cheerfully, ‘I have your belongings, Jane, and your mother had already written a letter, which she slipped into my hand as I left.’

  The wave of relief almost crushed her and for a few seconds she was unable to move or respond. Then her world righted and she sprung to her feet just catching the back of the chair in time to prevent it crashing to the floor.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Jackson.’

  He handed her an envelope and her small suitcase. ‘I got the impression that your mother was aware of your plans. She certainly didn’t have time to write such a thick letter so quickly.’

  ‘She knew I intended to volunteer as soon as war was declared but I never discussed the specifics with her.’

  ‘Arthur, can you show Jane where she’ll be sleeping tonight?’

  She was familiar with the downstairs layout of the vicarage as over the years she had attended afternoon tea, Bible classes and Sunday school there. However, she’d never been upstairs.

  ‘Here you are, my dear, you might as well sleep in James’s room as the bed is made up with clean linen. The bathroom is at the end of the passage, the WC adjacent. Come down when you’re ready.’

  He vanished, leaving her to examine her temporary surroundings. James was four years older than her and she’d always admired him from afar. He looked exactly like his father – medium build, mouse-brown hair and blue eyes similar to her own. David was a couple of years older and she’d had very little to do with him.

  She dropped her suitcase on the floor – no point in unpacking as she was only going to be there for one night. Thank goodness she was wearing her Sunday best and could travel to London knowing she looked like an adult as for once she was wearing silk stockings, smart navy court shoes and a pretty, floral printed frock with a nipped-in waist and matching belt. Her cardigan was navy as was her hat. This was more a fancy beret than an actual hat, but it served its purpose.

  Her everyday clothes consisted of skirts and blouses with Peter Pan collars worn with white ankle socks and her school shoes. All she had in her suitcase were changes of underwear, nightclothes, her stationery folder and her toiletries. Inside this leather folder was her precious post office savings book, her identity card and her ration book. She was hoping that she would be issued with a uniform once she was enrolled in the WAAF and therefore her civilian clothes would be redundant.

  The bedroom had a masculine air, no sign of boyhood toys or books anywhere. Sitting on one’s bed was forbidden so she perched on the chair. Then her lips curved; from now on she could sit anywhere she pleased. She was free of rules, of physical punishment, and could please herself, and she was going to make the most of it. Once she was a WAAF there would, of course, be structure but this would be no worse than being at boarding school and she’d always enjoyed that.

  For some girls the thought of sharing a dormitory with possibly dozens of others might be daunting but for her it would be nothing new. Until she was in the sixth form she’d had no privacy at all. The last two years of her school life she had shared with her best friend. What was Victoria doing now? Probably preparing for the Season and beginning her hunt for a suitable husband.

  She was still clutching the thick envelope from her mother. She carefully peeled it open. Her eyes widened. There was only one sheet of paper, the rest looked like folded five-pound notes. With shaking hands she pulled the money out. Fifteen pounds was a fortune – how had Mum managed to put this aside without that man knowing?

  The large, white, flimsy paper notes would be enough for her to buy anything she needed for the foreseeable future. When combined with the eight pounds in her savings book, and the handful of silver and coppers she had in her purse, she considered herself a wealthy young woman.

  My dearest Jane,

  You have done the right thing. If I could run away like you I would do so. Take care, my darling, and I shall think of you every day.

  Please don’t write to me at this address. Perhaps you could send an occasional letter to Mr and Mrs Jackson and I will pick it up from them.

  I love you and think you are a brave and courageous girl. Whatever you decide to do, I know that you will do it well.

  Your loving mother

  Jane rubbed her cheeks dry with her sleeve. Would she ever see her mother again? Unless it became possible for them to meet in London one day, she doubted she would. She couldn’t return to the house. She wasn’t brave; she was a coward and too terrified to stand up to that man.

  She carefully hid the precious notes behind the new Basildon Bond writing pad with its matching envelopes. This would have to go into her savings book once she got to London. She certainly wouldn’t risk venturing into the local post office in order to do it.

  Until she was on the train tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t feel safe. That man had frequently told her she was his property until she reached her majority and that was still three years away. He’d told her he had the law on his side. He was a respected figure in the neighbourhood and no one would have believed her. Mum did her best but would never speak out against her husband.

  She remained where she was, unsure if she should go downstairs or wait until she was called. She had no watch, there was no clock in the room and neither was there one on the church tower.

  ‘Jane, lunch is on the table. Are you coming down?’ Mrs Jackson called from the bottom of the stairs.

  She was at the door in seconds and had to restrain herself from hurrying – making any sort of noise was always a bad thing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, I didn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘We thought you might have gone to sleep and didn’t like to disturb you. We eat in the kitchen. It’s cosier and easier for me.’

  ‘It smells absolutely splendid. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since yesterday teatime.’

  ‘Good heavens, no breakfast today?’

  ‘Not on Sundays, no.’

  Jane sat down eagerly. The only times she’d been able to eat normally was when she’d been at school. At home she was in constant fear of inadvertently offending that man.

  She had second helpings of everything and couldn’t remember ever enjoying a meal so much. ‘Thank you, that was delicious. I don’t suppose the food in the WAAF will be very good, but I expect it will be plentiful.’

  ‘You’re far too thin, my dear; I’m sure that once you’re away from here, you’ll thrive,’ the vicar said with a benevolent smile.

  ‘My mother has asked me to write to her but to send my letters here. Would that be permissible?’ There was no need to say why.

  ‘Of course, we’ll be happy to help. Mrs Hadley can write a reply when she collects your letters and we can post them for her.’

  Jane blinked away tears; if only she’d had the courage to come to them sooner maybe her life would have been less miserable.

  ‘May I be excused?’

  Mrs Jackson looked startled by this request. ‘Goodness, you don’t have to ask. You’re an adult, you can make your own decisions.’

  ‘I’ll help you with the washing-up. Do you have a daily, like my mother does? That man didn’t like her to do anything he considere
d menial.’

  ‘That would be kind and most appreciated. I do all my own housework but Violet from the pub comes in to do my laundry.’

  The sun was shining, making the garden look inviting but Jane couldn’t bring herself to go outside just in case that man came to snatch her away. She was safe indoors – even he wouldn’t come into the vicarage uninvited.

  When Mr and Mrs Jackson went to church for Evensong, she had the house to herself. The moment they stepped outside she raced around locking all the doors. Not until she was certain all of them were firmly bolted did her heart stop pounding.

  She would be safer upstairs. The vicar had a fondness for detective stories and she selected one of Agatha Christie’s novels and took it with her. She was about to sit on the hard, upright wooden chair but then forced herself to stretch out on the bed.

  Something had been bothering her since her arrival and she couldn’t think what it was. What had she forgotten? She looked at her suitcase. Something she should have wasn’t there. She jack-knifed in horror. Her gas mask – it was on the hall table.

  Everyone had to carry a respirator in case there was a gas attack. These had been issued weeks ago. Would she be arrested for travelling to London tomorrow without one?

  Then common sense returned. It would probably be weeks before Germany sent bombers of any sort to England. Plenty of time to obtain another one even if she had to pay for the replacement. She couldn’t be the only person to have mislaid theirs.

  Mrs Jackson had told her she could have a bath if she wanted, wash her hair ready for her big adventure. Such luxury to be able to have unrestricted use of hot water and the bathroom. No doubt the facilities for a WAAF would be basic, similar to those she’d endured at school.

  With the bath brimming with hot water, far more than she’d ever had in her life, she removed her clothes, carefully folding each item and placing it neatly on the chair as she’d been brought up to do. Hopefully, this ingrained neatness would come in useful in her new life.