The G.I. Bride Read online

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Also by Eileen Ramsay

  Welcome to the world of Elizabeth Woodcraft

  A Letter from the Author

  Cheese and Potato Pie Recipe

  Tales from Memory Lane

  Copyright

  This novel is dedicated with respect to the American air force personnel for whom I babysat while I was a student in Edinburgh. I learned so much and yes, had so much fun. Thank you.

  Chapter 1

  May 1941

  Sighing with tiredness, April made her way up from the ward where she’d been working. It had been a long, long day at St Thomas’ and she’d spent most of her time running backwards and forwards with bed pans and changing dressings. So many, many dressings on so many poor people who had been injured. Still, despite her weariness, she was buoyed by the ward sister’s words to her as she left: ‘Carry on the way you’re going, Harvey, and by the time we’re finished with you, you’ll be able to run the hospital in an emergency singlehandedly!’

  She wasn’t sure about that, but after eighteen months of training, she felt like she was finally becoming a proper nurse, and goodness knew, she was now an expert at setting broken bones and stitching cuts.

  She thought back to her first weeks in training. How different life was then. When she’d started, there had been no bombs and though the country had just declared war, life had been carrying on much as normal. No one then had any idea of how truly awful war would be in London.

  ‘Got tomorrow off, love?’ called Cyril, the hospital night watchman, startling her out of her gloomy thoughts as she passed him.

  She summoned a smile. ‘Now wouldn’t that be lovely, Cyril. After a beautiful day like today, it looks like tomorrow might be a nice day for a picnic in the park . . . for those who have time to picnic.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s not you nor me, lass. I hardly remember parks and picnics. I used to love listening to the brass bands when I was a lad, though. This damned war – pardon my language – has spoiled the parks; air raid shelters where roses used to bloom. I ask you!’

  ‘There are still flowers, Cyril, and even duck ponds. And I read somewhere that some famous American bands plan to come – Hands Across the Sea or something like that. I’d best be off; I hate cycling in the dark, although there is a lovely moon tonight. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘You take care, love. That moon is beautiful, but it’s a bomber’s moon and no mistake. Go as quickly as you can.’

  April pushed open the main door and paused for a moment, taking in the glorious sight of the Houses of Parliament bathed in moonlight. But Cyril’s words had sent a shiver down her spine. He was right, it was a bomber’s moon. Beautiful and full and illuminating the streets in an ethereal silver glow. Her father would have noticed too, and he’d be standing at the window, anxiously awaiting her return. She knew he wouldn’t budge until she was safe with him, even if the air raid siren went. Ever since her beloved mother had died when she was eight, it had just been the two of them, with no other family to call their own, and her father watched out for her safety almost too much. It had been a little suffocating when she was younger, but now, older and wiser at the grand old age of twenty, she understood, because if anything happened to either of them, they’d be all alone in the world, and the thought completely terrified her.

  She hurried around to the bicycle stand. Only three were there; many nurses came in on special buses, but as she only lived a few miles away in Camberwell, she could cycle to the hospital easily. Still, even a couple of miles can seem like a very long way when your legs were as tired as hers, she thought grimly.

  As she wheeled her bike to the gate, she looked up into the night sky, not looking for twinkling stars but for enemy aircraft. A perfect May night, dark blue sky, stars flung generously against the darkness and that beautiful moon. There were, of course, no street lights, but at least tonight she’d be able to see well enough. But so would the Germans. Hopefully they’d stay away for once. She crossed her fingers and set off.

  Out of the gate she went, on to Walworth Road, heading for home. Head down, pedalling furiously, ears attuned to every sound: the purring of a luxury car, the aggressive rumble of yet another military vehicle, the startled screech as a lorry driver realised he was too far over and almost in the wrong lane.

  ‘Be there soon, Dad,’ April said to herself quietly. Then she yelped in fear as a van loomed up out of the darkness and almost brushed her aside. She waited where she was until it was quite some way away and then, her trembling stilled, began again to pedal. How her calves ached. She walked miles every day in the hospital, down long corridors, up one staircase and down another, back and forth between beds and sinks, but cycling, she decided, used different muscles – and each and every one was crying out for a rest. Never mind, not too far now, April, just one more push.

  She was just turning into Croxted Road, when she heard it: the terrifying sound that made her blood run cold and goose pimples break out all over her body. Bombers.

  Glancing up quickly, she could see the first group of enemy planes. She tried counting but lost her place as wave after wave of enemy aircraft moved in across the capital. Sobbing now, April increased her pace. Sweat was pouring into her eyes, and her breath was coming in fast pants. She recognised the signs of panic, she’d seen it often enough in the patients brought in after an air raid.

  She wobbled and fell off her bike, landing on her knees on the road. ‘Oh, go away and leave us in peace,’ she cried, as she heard the first explosion and then another and yet another. And they were close. Flames began to illuminate the sky and the noise was deafening.

  She stood up and looked around for her bicycle; she had to keep moving. In her panic, she couldn’t see it, but as she looked around helplessly, another wave of enemy bombers arrived, and the world exploded around her.

  Her bike forgotten, April ran desperately towards her street, barely noticing the falling glass and masonry. Then a massive explosion threw her to the ground and she lay, stunned, as all around her it seemed as if the world was disintegrating. She squinted through the dark and the dust, shivering. Despite the warmth of the night and the flames leaping all around her, she felt cold, so very cold. She looked up and spotted the remains of the green and white awning that usually hung above the greengrocer on the corner. Now it flapped in the heat of the blaze. She watched it in a daze until it fell to the ground amongst the broken glass that had once so proudly proclaimed ‘Charlie’s Fruit Bowl’.

  Dear God, no! That was her street. The street she’d grown up on, played with her friends in, and walked along with her dear mother, was on fire. She could see it. She could actually feel the heat, but she r
efused to believe it. The buzzing of the enemy aircraft overhead brought her back to her senses and she jumped to her feet.

  ‘Daddy!’ she screamed. She had to reach him. He would be at the window watching for her, as he was every night. Or would he have heard the planes and hurried to the Anderson shelter? Oh, please. For once let him have just thought of himself. But she knew he wouldn’t. There was nothing on earth that would make her father take shelter if he thought his precious daughter was in danger. She was all he had left in the world.

  ‘Oh, Daddy, please be safe. I’m coming.’

  She began to run. Past Charlie’s Fruit Bowl, past her friend Silvia’s house, now gutted and on fire, on through the rubble and the falling bricks, when finally she heard the eerie, terrifying noise that Londoners had been hearing almost every night for the past few months – the air raid siren. Too late, she thought, far too late. The wailing went on and on until she felt she could bear it no longer.

  She was heading straight for the flames that were sending sparks dancing against the blue-black sky. Soon she would be able to see the polished brass door knocker in the shape of a wily fox that Dad insisted was the envy of their neighbours, and in no time at all she would be inside and Dad would be saying, ‘There’s your slippers, love. I’ll just pop into the kitchen and turn on the gas under the milk.’

  A huge explosion, followed by another and yet another, made the whole street shake and houses tremble. All around her were falling bricks, exploding windows, collapsing walls, and she could see nothing for the great billowing clouds of dust and smoke. She had lost her sense of direction but blindly pushed forward, falling twice over what turned out to be a broken chimney pot and, a few steps further on, a large flower pot, a pot that had once been home to a rosebush that grew the most beautifully scented pink roses from early May to late September. Mum’s last rose.

  She turned around blindly, her nostrils full of the smell of cordite and dust and the awful black smoke that enveloped her, making her choke. Where was her home? It wasn’t where she had expected it to be. Instead, a large hole full of bricks seemed to have appeared and surely that green velvet was not one of the sitting-room curtains?

  She stood still, so shocked that she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Then she ran forward, dropped to her knees and began to pull the bricks away. Her father was here, he must be, buried under this rubble, and she would find him. She would!

  The noise and the confusion around her faded away as she focused on just one thing: finding her father. He must be here. Just waiting for her to find him. She dug on, oblivious to the pain in her hands and the glass cutting into her knees and the tears pouring down her face, and muttering over and over again, ‘Daddy! Hang on, Daddy!’

  Suddenly, an arm caught her around the waist and tried to pull her back. ‘Come on, love, get to a shelter. You’ll get yourself killed.’

  ‘Leave me alone! Get away from me! I have to find my father.’ She pushed the man away with a strength borne of panic and desperation, then turned and kept digging. Suddenly, a sharp pain brought her back to her senses. She looked at her hand. In the red glow of the flames, she could see that it was covered in blood. No matter, she could tend to it later. Wiping it down her jacket, she carried on throwing bricks and blocks of rubble out of the way.

  The arms came back again, stronger this time. ‘I’m sorry, love, you’ve got to get out of here.’ The voice was kind but firm. ‘I’ll look for your dad, don’t you worry. If he’s there, we’ll find him. Now, get to the shelter.’

  ‘I’ll take her.’ Another voice suddenly appeared. And April found herself being enveloped in warm arms. ‘Come now, April, there’s nothing you can do here. Let me get you to the shelter, and we’ll come back just as soon as it’s safe.’

  She squinted at the man. It was Mr Cary, one of the local fire wardens. She struggled against him as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed. ‘Let me look!’

  ‘April.’ The voice was low and insistent. ‘If your father is injured, he’s going to need you to look after him. But at this rate, you’ll get yourself killed. Come on, love, you need to get away from here. Let the firemen do their job.’

  April collapsed, sobbing on his shoulder. ‘I have to find him. Please, help me. What’ll I do if he’s dead? Where will I go?’

  ‘Shh, girl. Time enough to worry about that. But first, you need to be safe.’ The man lifted April and carried her unsteadily over the rubble. April opened her eyes and looked up. High in the night sky, the moon shone down on the hellish scene, mocking them all with its deceptive beauty. It was the moon’s fault, she thought. If it wasn’t for that huge, stupid moon, she’d be with her dad now, drinking her cocoa. If she could reach up and pull it out of the sky, she would.

  Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. She tried to breathe in, to take in the horrible, dusty air, but nothing came.

  ‘Please, help . . .’ she wheezed.

  And still she could not draw in a breath. The world around her started to darken, the noise to fade, until it all disappeared.

  *

  April woke with a start. She was lying on a bench with a scratchy grey blanket covering her legs. The light was dim, but she could hear voices and knew that she was not alone. She lay for a moment, wondering why she felt so terrible. Then it came crashing back. She sat up with a gasp.

  ‘Daddy?’

  A woman appeared at her side. It was Mrs O’Connor, who had lived in the house opposite for as long as April could remember. ‘April, thank goodness you’ve come back to us. We’re in the shelter. One of the wardens carried you in here. What on earth have you been doing to yourself, dear? Your hands are a mess.’

  ‘Have they found him?’

  Mrs O’Connor shook her head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry, April, your house took a direct hit. And there’s not much left of mine, neither. They’re out there now, lookin’ for survivors. But you best stay here with me for now, love. It’s not safe and the all-clear hasn’t sounded, though I’ve not heard a plane for a bit.’

  ‘But if there’s an air raid I should get to the hospital! They’ll need all the staff there to help.’ She sat up and swung her legs on to the floor. A wave of dizziness suddenly hit her as she tried to stand.

  ‘No, love, they’ll just have to manage without you tonight. You’re in no fit state to treat anyone.’

  April looked down and noticed that her hands were roughly bandaged. ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Accordin’ to the warden, you cut your hands trying to dig the rubble away. I’ve tried to clean them as best I can, but for now, this’ll ’ave to do.’

  April stared at the kindly woman. She couldn’t take it in. Her father, their house, the memories of her mother; they were all she had left in the world. If she lost this, then what did she have? Overwhelmed, she started to shake.

  ‘Oh, Mrs O’Connor, what will I do if he’s gone? There’s no one else. There’s nothing left.’ She sobbed violently in the woman’s arms.

  Mrs O’Connor wrapped the blanket around April’s shoulders and tried to soothe her. ‘There, there, my love. There’s many in the same boat. We’ll all manage one way or another. And you’re not alone. All of us, we’ll look out for each other, you hear. Worst comes to worst you can come stay with me sister in Sussex. That’s where I’ll be goin’ soon as I can. Not many bombs dropping down that way. Lucky buggers.’

  Suddenly another voice cut in. ‘Ah, April, you’re back with us. I’ve brought you some sweet tea. Now come on, girl, buck up. Tears won’t get you anywhere.’

  April looked up, startled at the brusque tone. It was Mrs Osborne, the vicar’s wife. April turned her face away. She was the last woman she wanted to see right now.

  Mrs O’Connor leaped to April’s defence. ‘Mrs Osborne, the girl’s just lost ’er ’ome and maybe her father and has nowhere to go. I think she’s entitled to a bit of cryin’.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, April, you can co
me and stay with me and the reverend till you’re back on your feet. Our boy Theo’s away doing his duty, though we’ve got our refugees . . . Did I tell you about them, Mrs O’Connor?’

  ‘Only a few times, Mrs O. Such a kind and charitable lady you are.’ April wasn’t too far gone that she didn’t notice the sarcasm in Mrs O’Connor’s voice.

  ‘Well, they do say charity begins at home. And there’s room in our house for one more refugee with no home to call their own.’

  At these words, April sobbed even harder.

  ‘I think it might be better if you left her with me, Mrs O. Not sure you’re helpin’ much.’

  ‘Rightio, I see you’ve got this one under control. What a treasure you are, Mrs O’Connor. But bring her round to the vicarage as soon as the all-clear’s sounded, won’t you? I’ll take good care of her.’

  ‘Bloody woman,’ Mrs O’Connor cursed under her breath once she’d left. ‘Sorry, love,’ she said to April. ‘But I’ve been cleanin’ for her for nigh on ten years, and she ’asn’t got a charitable bone in her body. All for show, that one. And those poor refugees work hard for her charity, believe me.’

  ‘I don’t want to live with her. It’s her fault that Theo left me for that girl.’ Remembering the heartbreak of Theo’s betrayal brought fresh tears to April’s eyes. She’d been in love with him all her life, and she’d thought he loved her, but it turned out she was wrong. And Mrs Osborne had taken great delight in telling her all about it; she’d never thought April was good enough for her precious boy.

  Mrs O’Connor snorted. ‘If Theo had an ounce of gumption, he’d have stood up to his mum and gone with whichever girl he liked best.’

  ‘Well, he clearly didn’t want me enough. I won’t live with that woman. I can’t. And Dad might still be alive.’ April started sobbing again.

  ‘Shh, now, love. He might be, but you need to take what’s offered right now. And Reverend Osborne is a fine gentleman. He’ll make sure you’re all right. And then, maybe, once the dust has settled, so to speak, you can look to your future again. Maybe go and stay with some other family.’

  ‘I don’t have any other family. Just me and Dad.’