Lost Angel

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback by HarperCollinsPublishers, 2009

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2009

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Cover photographs: Alamy/Getty

Kitty Neale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847563538

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780007346332

Version: 2016-04-14

Dedication

For Shelley Blofeld.

Thank you, darling, for giving me two beautiful great-grandchildren and for making my grandson so happy. I hope your marriage will go from strength to strength, and though distant, you will always be able to see us as a part of your family.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Battersea, South London, September 1940

Nine-year-old Ellen Stone woke to the incessant wail of the air raid siren. Neighbourhood dogs were already howling and Ellen’s stomach churned with fear as she flung back the blankets.

‘Come on, get a move on,’ her mother, Hilda, shouted, ‘and don’t forget your gas mask.’

Ellen’s thin legs wobbled as she reached out in total darkness to fumble for the light switch. With the blackout in force, and the windows covered to prevent even a chink of light escaping, her bedroom looked gloomy in the dim glow of a bare lightbulb. Ellen pushed her shoulder-length dark hair aside as she thrust bare feet into her shoes, and then, grabbing the hated gas mask, she ran downstairs.

‘Hurry up,’ her mum urged.

They stumbled down the garden to the Anderson shelter, but could already hear the heavy, uneven throb of bombers flying across London.

‘Oh, Mum,’ cried Ellen.

‘I know, love, I know,’ she consoled, closing the shelter door behind them. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably going for the Surrey Docks again. Now hold the torch so I can light the oil lamp.’

With hands shaking, Ellen did as she was told, and though her mum was a tiny woman, less than five foot tall, she leaned on her strength. With light brown hair, small dark eyes and a thin face that ended in a pointed chin, her mother was like a pretty mouse in appearance, yet there was nothing meek in her demeanour. She could be soft and kind, but woe betide anyone who crossed her.

‘There, that’s better,’ Hilda said in the glow from the oil lamp.

They sat on the camp bed, but Ellen jumped as a loud barrage of gunfire sounded, relieved when her mum put an arm around her shoulder, saying, ‘They’re ours, love. It’s those huge banks of anti-aircraft guns they’ve set up in Battersea Park.’

‘I … I’m still scared, Mum.’

‘I know, and this can’t go on. We need to get you out of London, but I don’t fancy this evacuation lark where you’d be sent off to strangers. I’ve sent a letter to my old friend Gertie, asking if you can stay with her for a while.’

‘But … but what about you? I don’t want to go without you.’

‘Your gran and granddad won’t shift and I can’t leave them. You’ll be fine with Gertie and you’ll love it on her smallholding. She’s even got chickens.’

There was the sudden shriek of stick bombs falling, along with the clatter of incendiaries as they landed on roofs and pavements. This was followed almost immediately by a loud boom, and another, so many that Ellen lost count as the ground shook beneath them. She was deafened by the noise, terrified, her mum now hunched over her like a shield.

All sense of time was lost, but then came a strange stillness, a hush before more noise – this time the dull thud of walls collapsing. ‘Mum, I can smell burning.’

They sat up to hear the crackle of flames and swiftly her mum moved to douse the oil lamp, a tremor in her voice. ‘The … the gas mains may have been hit, but it’s all right, we’re safe here. I think it’s over now, but we’ll have to wait for the all-clear. I can’t light the Primus so we’ll just have a drop of water.’

Fumbling in the dim light, her mum poured water from a bottle into tin mugs and, throat parched, Ellen drank it greedily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

They sat, ears alert, dreading another wave of bombers until at last, after what felt like another hour, the all-clear tone from the siren sounded.

Tentatively they left the shelter, only to stand almost paralysed with shock at the sight that greeted them. Their house, along with every other in the street, had been destroyed, crushed, and all that remained were piles of rubble.

‘Oh, no, no,’ Hilda gasped.

The landscape appeared vast, alien, and at first beyond Ellen’s comprehension, but then she realised why. It wasn’t just their street that had been hit; it was the next one and the one beyond that, the area now a huge open mass of destruction. Dust was thick in the air, along with the smell of gas and smoke. Fires burned and Ellen was dimly aware of the distant sound of bells clanging as fire engines rushed to the scene. Yet still she and her mother stood, dazed and unmoving.

Gradually more people appeared, covered in dust like them, and it was only then that Ellen’s mother seemed to come to life.

‘Mum! Dad,’ she cried, grabbing Ellen’s hand to drag her forward. They stumbled over rubble, disorientated, both soon coated in filth, until at last Ellen thought they might be in what had once been the next street. Even though she knew what to expect, a sob caught in her throat. It was gone, like theirs … her grandparents’ house was gone.

‘Mum! Dad!’ Hilda yelled, falling to her knees as she frantically dug at the rubble. Ellen ran to help, their hands and fingers soon bleeding, yet still they dug.

‘I told them,’ Hilda sobbed. ‘I told them to use their shelter, but they just wouldn’t listen and preferred to crawl under the table. Mum! Dad! Can you hear me?’

For a moment they paused, listening, praying to hear voices, but there was nothing. They began to pull at the rubble again, but then hands reached out to drag them away.

‘Come on, you’ve got to stand back,’ an ARP warden said. ‘It’s too dangerous and the heavy rescue teams are here now.’

Exhausted, they were led from the devastation and not long after a mobile canteen arrived. They were given cups of tea, a woman saying sympathetically, ‘Are you all right?’

‘My parents, they’re under that lot. I’ve got to help,’ Hilda gasped, about to move forward again.

‘You won’t be allowed past the cordon. Leave it to the rescue teams. They know how to assess the risks, how to find people buried under rubble; it’s best if you stay out of the way.’

The vast area was a hive of activity now, firemen, policemen, ambulances, heavy rescue teams, ARP wardens, but all Ellen could think about was her beloved gran and granddad. She was aware of other people around them, women and children crying, but she felt strange, remote, the sounds coming as though from a distance. She swayed, a rushing sound in her ears, and then, as her knees caved beneath her, Ellen knew no more.

Hilda was reeling with grief. It had been a dreadful twenty-four hours and she was almost on the point of collapse, yet she had to hold herself together for her daughter’s sake. Her only relief was that Ellen wasn’t hurt; the fainting fit a combination of shock and nervous exhaustion. She was still whey-faced, her blue eyes bruised with pain; her daughter, like her, was grieving.

It had been hours before her parents were pulled from the rubble, both dead, and for the rest of her life Hilda knew she would never forget the night-marish sight of their broken bodies. Now she had the funeral to arrange, and even though her friend, Mabel Johnson – whose house was outside the bombed area and untouched – had taken them in, Hilda felt so alone. If only Doug was here; but at the outset of the war her husband had enlisted in the navy. He was on a ship, somewhere at sea, and, with so many naval losses being reported, she feared for his safety.

‘Here, get that down you,’ Mabel said, her kind, round face soft with concern as she handed Hilda a cup of tea.

‘Mabel, I’ve lost everything. My home, furniture and, until you all rallied round, we only had the filthy clothes we stood in.’

‘You’ll be found somewhere else to live, but in the meantime didn’t you mention once that your mum had a sister? I expect you’ll want to go to her.’

‘She died years ago, Mabel, and after that her husband and son moved away. They didn’t bother to keep in touch with us and I’ve no idea where they are.’

‘Until you’re re-housed you’re welcome to stay here,’ Mabel said soothingly. ‘With my Jack away fighting in this bloody war and both my boys evacuated to Devon, I’ve got plenty of room.’

‘Thanks, it’s good of you.’

‘Don’t be daft. We’ve been mates since we were nippers and I know you’d do the same for me.’

‘I still can’t believe my parents have gone. All I’ve got left of them is this necklace, Mum’s chain and crucifix. She always wore it, swore by it, but … but a lot of good that did her,’ Hilda said, once again overwhelmed by grief.

Mabel let her cry for a while, but then said, ‘I knew your mum well, although … I didn’t know she was religious.’

‘She wasn’t really, well, not a churchgoer. The necklace was my grandmother’s, passed on to Mum when she died. For some reason she used to say that wearing it made her feel as though Gran was watching over her.’

‘Who knows? Maybe she was.’

‘She’s dead, Mabel. My dad too. What was the point of believing in a daft cross and chain?’

‘From what you’ve been told, they didn’t suffer.’

Hilda nodded and, though thankful for that, she still felt lost, bereft. She clutched the chain, her mother’s face still so clear in her mind, and then slowly fastened it around her neck.

‘That’s it, girl. Sometimes we all need something to cling to, something that gives us a bit of hope.’

‘I don’t think this necklace has some sort of mysterious power. I’m only wearing it because … because it was hers …’ And with those words Hilda broke down again. She was a grown woman, a wife and a mother, yet now her parents were gone she felt lost. They had always been there for her to run to – had always loved her unconditionally. Now, without them, she felt so alone.

Chapter Two

Bombs continued to rain down on London, and Hilda soon lost count of the number of times they had to flee to Mabel’s air raid shelter. The funeral had been dreadful and she’d barely managed to get through it. So many of her parents’ friends had been there, people like them who had lived in this neighbourhood all their lives. Now they were watching it crumbling around them as more and more houses were destroyed. Those whose homes remained refused to leave the area, stoically saying that the Luftwaffe weren’t going to chase them out, but Hilda had found it hard to listen to. If her parents had left Battersea, they’d still be alive. She had to get Ellen to safety and was still waiting to hear from Gertie, but the thought of parting with her daughter was almost more than she could bear. With her parents gone and Doug away, Ellen was all she had left.

Hilda stood in the queue now, there to beg for accommodation again, and when it came to her turn she said, ‘Please, you must have something?’

‘We’re doing our best, Mrs Stone. We’ve got so many families to re-house and at least you’ve got temporary accommodation with Mrs Johnson.’

‘My daughter’s in a dreadful state. Her nerves have gone and she needs the stability of her own home again.’

‘She should be evacuated.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Hilda snapped. ‘I’m waiting to hear from a friend and if she’ll take her in, my daughter will be sent to Somerset.’

‘Perhaps you should go with her.’

Hilda stared at the woman, mouth agape, yet as her words sunk in, they gave her food for thought.

‘If you ask me, it would be the ideal solution,’ the woman continued, ‘or you could try some private landlords. I’m afraid you aren’t a high priority, Mrs Stone, but if anything becomes available, we’ll let you know. Next, please!’

Dismissed, Hilda moved aside, her place quickly taken by the next person in the queue. It was hopeless, she thought, dejected as she made her way back to Mabel’s.

‘How did you get on?’ Mabel asked when Hilda returned, footsore and downcast.

‘It was a waste of time. I think you’d have to be kipping on the street before they’d help. Oh, I shouldn’t moan, Mabel. I know there’s worse off than me.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Pat Randle got re-housed – not that it was much, just a couple of rooms – but within a week she was bombed out again. It’s terrible, Hilda, and I live in dread of this place being hit.’

Hilda didn’t say it, but she too lived with the same fear. It broke her heart to pass through the streets where she and her parents once lived, the area a vast, ugly bombsite now, and Mabel was right, the same thing could happen to this house, to this street, and they’d be homeless again. Was it any wonder that they were all so jumpy and Ellen a bundle of nerves?

‘You’re miles away, Hilda.’

‘Sorry, I was thinking about Ellen. If I don’t hear from Gertie soon, I’ll have to think about having her evacuated.’

‘It’d be for the best. I know your mum used to take you to play with Gertie, but after what came out later I wouldn’t fancy sending my kids to her.’

‘Don’t be daft. Gertie wouldn’t hurt Ellen, she loves children, and I’d rather she went there than to strangers. Mind you, something the housing officer said has set me thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘She suggested that I go to Somerset too.’ 11

‘What! But you’re a Londoner. You’d go mad living in the sticks.’

‘At one time I might have, but now I’m not so sure. The thought of being away from these bombing raids, of a bit of peace and quiet, is more than tempting.’

‘When this war started everyone said it’d be over in five minutes, but they were wrong. Families have been torn apart, mine included. Jack’s away fighting, my kids are miles from me and … and now you’re going too.’

Hilda was shocked to see tears in Mabel’s eyes. She wasn’t usually an emotional woman; more the take what life throws at you and get on with it type.

‘I’m only thinking about it, Mabel. I haven’t made my mind up yet.’

The air raid siren suddenly wailed and Mabel jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, sod it, not again.’

They hurried to the shelter, Hilda’s forehead creased with worry. ‘I hope Ellen’s all right. I wish I’d kept her at home now.’

‘She had to go back to school sometime, and, if you ask me, it’ll do her good to play with her friends again. Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.’

They sat down, Hilda’s heart racing with fear and her hand clutching the crucifix. Whenever she was frightened or deep in thought it was something she seemed to do automatically now and impatiently she let it go. It couldn’t help her, just as it hadn’t helped her mother, and she was just being silly.

Tense, they listened for the sound of bombers, but heard nothing and less than an hour later looked at each other with relief when the all-clear sounded. Back in the house Mabel immediately put the kettle on the gas.

‘I don’t know about you, mate, but false alarm or not, I could murder a cup of tea.’

‘I hate it being rationed. How are we doing?’

‘We’ve got enough and, anyway, I use the same tea leaves twice to stretch them out.’

‘Yes, I know. Sometimes I can see through the tea to the bottom of my cup.’

‘You cheeky mare. Still, it’s nice to hear you sounding a bit lighthearted again.’

‘I don’t feel lighthearted, Mabel. When I wake up in the morning the first thing I think about is my parents, and they seem to remain constantly on my mind.’

‘It’s early days yet, but it’ll get easier, you’ll see.’

They sat drinking their tea, Hilda trying to keep up with Mabel’s chatter while her mind kept drifting elsewhere – to Gertie and Somerset.

It was an hour later when the door opened and Ellen walked in.

‘Hello, pet. Did you have a nice day at school?’

‘It … it was all right,’ Ellen said, the stammer she’d developed evident. ‘I … I was frightened when th … the siren went off an … and we all had to go down to the basement again.’

‘It was a false alarm and nothing to worry about.’

‘M … Mr Green said th … the school will be closing. He gave us letters to … to bring home.’

Hilda took it, but after what Ellen had just said, she wasn’t surprised by the contents. It was a general letter, addressed to all the parents, saying that the school would be closing at the end of the month. As others had before him, the headmaster also urged that any children still in London should be evacuated. Hilda looked at Mabel, dreaded telling her, but the letter had sealed her decision.

‘I’ve got to get Ellen away from here, Mabel. If Gertie had got my last letter I’m sure she’d have replied by now. I’m going to write to her again.’

‘N … no, Mum. I don’t want to go away. I … I want to stay with you.’

‘Don’t fret, love. This time I’m going to ask Gertie if we can both stay with her.’ Smiling sadly at her friend, Hilda added, ‘I’m sorry, Mabel.’

‘It’s all right, I understand, but I’m gonna miss you,’ she said, a choke in her voice.

‘I’ll miss you too, and doing this blows any chance I’ve got of getting re-housed. I’m beginning to feel like a gypsy with no fixed abode, travelling from one place to another. I just hope it won’t be for long, that it’ll be over soon and we can come back to where we belong.’

‘Yes, mate, you’ll be back,’ Mabel said with a show of bravery now. ‘Once a Londoner, always a Londoner.’

Hilda knew she was putting on a brave front and smiled gratefully. If Mabel broke down she would too, but more tears were the last thing Ellen needed to see. Yes, Gertie would take them in, she was sure of it, and a little time in the country was just what Ellen needed.

It would be hard to leave her friends, especially Mabel, but in Somerset they’d be safe, Gertie’s home providing a haven until soon, she was sure, this dreadful war would be over.

Chapter Three

Ellen was shaken awake when the train pulled into Crewkerne station and climbed bleary-eyed out of the carriage. It was three in the afternoon as she and her mother stood on the platform, a bitter cold wind cutting through their clothes. Only moments later a tall, big-boned woman appeared and Ellen was amazed to see that she was wearing scruffy, brown, corduroy trousers that were tucked into wellington boots, along with a dirty navy duffel coat. Not only that, she was wearing a brown flat cap with her dark blonde hair tucked up beneath it.

‘Hilda,’ the woman cried, her dark brown eyes warm as she strode up to them and her strong features softened by a wide smile.

‘Hello, Gertie,’ smiled Hilda.

‘You look exhausted. Come on, let’s get you home,’ Gertrude Forbes said as she grabbed both suitcases. ‘My goodness, is that Ellen? I can’t believe it.’

‘Of course it’s Ellen. It was her birthday last month and she’s ten now.’

‘She’s so pretty – but has it been that long since I’ve seen you?’

‘Yes, nearly seven years and you’ve been in Somerset for six of them.’

‘Where does the time go? Come on, follow me,’ said Gertie, striding ahead of them now.

‘Blimey, is that yours?’ Hilda asked when she saw a small horse and cart.

‘Yes. Ned’s the only transport I have and I’d be lost without him.’

Hilda eyed the horse warily, but Gertie urged them to climb onto a bench-like seat at the front of the flat cart. She then stowed their cases in the back before heaving herself up beside them.

‘Right, we’re off,’ she said, taking the reins, and with a gentle click of her tongue, the horse moved forward.

Ellen had never been on a horse and cart before and found it strange: the gentle sway, the clip, clop of hooves as they rode along a narrow street. Soon they were passing through a small town and she listened as her mother spoke with Gertie.