The Rainbow Years Read online

  The Rainbow Years

  RITA BRADSHAW

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2006 Rita Bradshaw

  The right of Rita Bradshaw to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 7591 2

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  PART ONE - 1916 A Fine Dividing Line

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  PART TWO - 1931 That Girl

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  PART THREE - 1932 Suitors

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  PART FOUR - 1933 The Proposal

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  PART FIVE - 1933 New Beginnings

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART SIX - 1941 Air Force Blue

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  PART SEVEN - 1942 Decisions

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART EIGHT - 1950 The Road Back

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  EPILOGUE

  Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she still lives today with her husband, their children and two dogs. At the age of sixteen she met her husband - whom she considers her soulmate - and they have two daughters and a son and two young grandsons. Much to her delight, Rita’s first attempt at a novel was accepted for publication, and she went on to write many more successful novels under a pseudonym before writing for Headline using her own name.

  As a committed Christian and passionate animal-lover Rita has a full and busy life, but her writing continues to be a consuming pleasure that she never tires of. In any spare moments she loves reading, walking her beloved, elderly dog, eating out and visiting the cinema and theatre, as well as being involved in her local church and animal welfare.

  Rita Bradshaw’s earlier sagas, Alone Beneath the Heaven, Reach for Tomorrow, Ragamuffin Angel, The Stony Path, The Urchin’s Song, Candles in the Storm, The Most Precious Thing and Always I’ll Remember, are also available from Headline.

  This book is for my darling husband who has

  shared all the clouds of grey as well as the

  rainbows with me, and who never tells me to pull

  myself together when my emotional side goes into

  hyperdrive. A rare quality in a man!

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my dear mum and late dad for all their memories of the hard but strangely warming years of the Second World War, when everyone pulled together in a way we only catch a glimpse of now and again these days. Research material is invaluable when writing a story of this nature, which spans nearly four decades of radical change. It would be impossible to list all my resources but those below have been of special help.

  Memories of Sunderland, True North Books

  Life in Britain Between the Wars, L.C.B. Seaman

  Our Wartime Days: The WAAF in World War II, Squadron Leader Beryl E. Escott

  Bader’s Tangmere Spitfires, Dilip Sarker

  Fighter Pilots of the RAF 1939-45, Chaz Bowyer

  History of the RAF, Chaz Bowyer

  Shot Down in Flames, Geoffrey Page DSO, OBE, DFC, BAR

  Sunderland’s Blitz, Kevin Brady

  Author’s Note

  The districts where the air raids occurred in Sunderland have not been strictly adhered to.

  Covet not the choicest blessings,

  A life of sunshine and blue skies,

  Nor yet the road that others take

  Which beckons by and by.

  But look to see the rainbow

  Behind the clouds of grey,

  Desire to find the wisdom

  That enriches on life’s way,

  And when the storms are over

  And new dawns begin to break,

  The rainbows of tomorrow

  Will find you in their wake.

  Anonymous

  PART ONE

  1916 A Fine Dividing Line

  Chapter 1

  ‘You all right, Bess?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You don’t look it. Is . . . is it bad news, lass?’

  ‘Aye.’ There was a long pause and then Bess Shawe forced herself to say, ‘Christopher’s dead. Bought it the first day of the Somme.’ Nearly two months and she hadn’t known, hadn’t felt it.

  ‘Oh, Bess.’ Kitty Price wanted to put her arms round her friend but they didn’t do things like that. Awkwardly now she sucked in her thin lips, rubbing at her snub of a nose before she said, ‘My da says the old generals want stringing up by their boots for the mess they’re making of the war. Slaughter of the innocent, he calls it.’ Then realising she was being less than tactful, she added, ‘But you know what my da’s like. Opinion about everything from clarts to carlings, he’s got, whether he knows owt about it or not. Drives Mam mad.’

  Bess closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out the face of her friend - the friend who was more like a sister, the pair of them having lived next door to each other all their lives. He was dead. Christopher was dead. But more than that, he had a wife and child he had never let on about.

  She crumpled the letter in her fingers. Opening her eyes she saw Kitty’s anxious expression and after exhaling slowly, she said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m all right. Look, thank your Elsie for letting me use her address for the letters and tell her there won’t be any more. I’m going for a walk, I want to be on my own for a bit.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to come, lass?’

  Bess nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Kitty’s concern was warming but weakening; another moment or so and she would be blubbing out the fix she was in and she couldn’t do that. No one must know, no one. Her da would kill her if he found out. Oh, Christopher, Christopher, you can’t be dead.You can’t.You mustn’t leave me like this. And then her stomach swirled and she tasted the acidic burning of bile on her tongue. She swallowed, telling herself she couldn’t be sick, not here, not now. She had to get herself away somewhere quiet, somewhere where she could sit and think.

  The two girls were standing on the doorstep of a terraced house and now Bess inclined her head, saying, ‘You go back in, Kitty. I’ll see you later.’ Without waiting for a reply she turned and began to walk swiftly, the letter still clutched in a ball between her fingers.

  On leaving Burleigh Street she stepped out int
o the main thoroughfare of High Street East, narrowly avoiding some foul rotting mess strewn over the pavement. She hated the East End. Her head was spinning and her nose wrinkled with distaste. The smell and dirt tainted everything; the narrow streets with their notorious public houses bordering the docks seemed menacing even in the light of day. How Elsie could bear to live here she didn’t know.

  And then she caught the thought, biting her lip. Who was she to turn her nose up? Kitty’s sister was a respectable married woman with a husband and two bairns; she’d swap places with Elsie tomorrow if she could. In fact she’d be content to live in the worst street in Sunderland, the worst house, anything, if only she could turn the clock back to before she’d met Christopher Lyndon.

  By the time she turned off the main street into John Street in the heart of Bishopwearmouth, Bess was out of breath. The stitch in her side which had begun some minutes before was excruciating but her rapid steps didn’t falter.

  The late August afternoon was a hot one and beads of perspiration were on her brow and upper lip under her big straw hat, but now the destination she had in mind, Mowbray Park, was just a minute or two away.

  When she entered the park she was barely aware of bairns scampering and mothers pushing perambulators on the path close to the fountain, she just wanted to sit down. Finding a vacant bench she sank down, shutting her eyes for a few moments. Gradually the pain in her side receded and her heart stopped its mad racing. She opened her eyes, still sitting absolutely still as the sights and sounds of a Sunday afternoon registered on her senses.

  What was she going to do? She glanced down at the screwed-up letter in her hand and then carefully began to smooth it out on her lap.The black scrawl was authoritative, the contents of the letter more so. Trembling, she read it again.

  Dear Miss Shawe,

  Your recent communication to Captain Christopher Lyndon has been passed to me by his wife, Mrs Angeline Lyndon, for the courtesy of a reply. My sister-in-law would inform you that her husband was killed on the first day of the Somme. Your letter evidently arrived after this as it was still unopened when returned with his effects. The content of your communication suggests an intimacy with my brother which is totally inappropriate and this has added to the burden of Mrs Lyndon’s grief. On top of losing her husband of eight years and the father of her child, she now has to bear the knowledge of his dalliance with a person such as yourself. For my own part I would warn you that if you make any effort to contact Mrs Lyndon in the future, I will place the matter in the hands of the family solicitor. I trust I make myself clear.

  It was signed Maurice Lyndon and the last few letters of the signature had driven deep into the paper, as though the writer was possessed of a fury he was finding difficult to restrain.

  Christopher married and a father? She gave a little moan and then glanced about quickly in case anyone had heard. But he’d told her he loved her, that she was beautiful and desirable and that when the war was over he’d brave the wrath of his father and marry her. She had understood that for someone of his class to marry someone of hers would be frowned upon, but he’d said that once they could be together all the time and he could be there to protect her from any hostility from his family, he’d make her his wife. And she had believed him.

  She bit down hard on the back of her fist to prevent herself moaning out loud again. Now she understood why he’d been so cagey about her meeting any of his friends or writing to his home address. And it had been at his suggestion that she’d arranged for Kitty’s sister to receive his letters. He had said that until he could meet her parents and formally ask for her hand it was better to keep things secret in case his father caused a fuss and her parents were offended. In reality, he had been worried that if her da tried to contact him to find out what his intentions were, the truth might have come to light. With the benefit of hindsight it was all suddenly perfectly clear.

  Oh Holy Mother, help me in my hour of need. I have sinned, I know I have sinned, but be merciful. Don’t let this thing happen to me. And then she stopped the silent gabbling as it dawned on her what she was asking for. Why would the Holy Mother grant a petition to end the life of this baby growing inside her when it was innocent of all wrong? She was the guilty one and she would have to suffer the consequences of her sin.

  Three times Christopher had taken her, only three times, but then once was enough, she knew that. Look at Gladys Blackett. Her Shane had had to leave for the front straight after their wedding night and had been blown to smithereens within the week, but nine months later Gladys had produced a bouncing baby boy. A gift from God to comfort her in her loss, all the neighbours had said, and wasn’t the bairn the very image of his da? Those selfsame women in the streets here around would brand her a scarlet woman and her baby a flyblow, and they would be watching it as it grew, to seize on any likeness they could pin on some poor man or other they had no liking for.

  She couldn’t have it. She glanced about her wildly as though the beautiful summer afternoon would produce a solution. She’d have to do something, take something. She’d heard the talk amongst some of the women in the munitions factory who were no better than they should be. But how could she confide in any of them? A quiver passed over her face. She’d have to, there was nothing else for it. They might be a bit rough round the edges but they were kind enough on the whole. Her da wouldn’t have her bringing the shame of a bastard into the family, he’d kill her first.

  She shut her eyes again, seeing Christopher’s handsome face and deep blue eyes under a shock of rich brown hair on the screen of her mind. It had been six months ago, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, when she had first seen Captain Christopher Lyndon. She and Kitty had recently started work at the munitions factory and the one pound seventeen and six a week they were earning was four times as much as the wage they’d had as parlourmaids since leaving school. So to celebrate her impending birthday they’d decided to treat themselves to a cream tea at Binns. In the doorway she had collided with a tall, handsome man in uniform and dropped the packages she’d been carrying.

  He had insisted on buying them tea and cakes in reparation, and then walking them most of the way home to Deptford Road bordering the Wear Glass Works where her father worked. And she had known straight off it was her he was interested in, not Kitty. Something had happened to her that afternoon when he had first smiled at her and she hadn’t been the same since. She’d been head over heels, crazily in love. And that was her only excuse, she told herself bitterly. She had been crazy, mad to let him do what he’d done. He’d been her first lad, though, and she hadn’t known what it was all about the first time till it was over. And then she’d cried and he’d held her close and told her it was all right and he loved her like she’d never be loved again . . .

  After each time, her conscience had seared her like a branding iron but in spite of her shame she hadn’t dared to go to confession. She knew the priest was supposed to forget the secrets he was told the minute he stepped out of the dark box, but somehow she wasn’t sure she quite believed it. And the thought of remaining unclean wasn’t as terrifying as the possibility her da might find out what she’d done. In spite of what her da was like, he was on good terms with Father Fraser; butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth when the Father called round the house.

  She continued to sit in the sunshine for a long, long time, her head bowed and her eyes staring unseeing at the paper on her lap. Eventually she stirred, and then it was to slowly rip the letter into tiny pieces.

  She had given Christopher her heart and soul and mind and body, and he’d just been playing with her, leading her on. She couldn’t bear it, she wished she could die.

  Enough. The word was loud in her mind and she responded to it, straightening her back and raising her head to gaze about her almost defiantly. It had happened and there was no going back. The only question now was how she was going to get rid of the evidence of her foolishness. And that was how she had to think about it. This thing inside her wasn’
t a baby, not yet, not till it was born and took breath. She’d missed three monthlies but apart from the odd feeling of queasiness and a consuming tiredness come nightfall there was no physical sign of what had happened to her. Her stomach was as flat as it had ever been. But that wouldn’t continue for much longer.

  Bess stood up, letting the fragments of paper shower to the ground like confetti on a wedding day.

  But there would be no wedding for her, she thought, beginning to walk along the neatly trimmed path leading out of the park.There never would have been with Christopher and she’d been stupid to believe otherwise. Men like him, privately educated gentlemen who had wealth and influence and ancestry behind them, didn’t marry working-class girls. Oh, they might toy with them, amuse themselves with such trifles, dally with them - her mouth tightened as the word seared her mind - but marriage was kept for the fine ladies of their own class who were used to soft kid slippers and furs.