Storm Sparrows

By Marie Thompson

How does a family dig itself out of despair and destitution? In the case of the Chester family, it was through a woman named Lili.

Maggie had few expectations from life. Her father and brother were lost to war, leaving her in crushing poverty in Londons East End with her dominating mother, Rose. WWI ended. Frank Chester, a handsome Cockney, swept pretty Maggie off her feet, and they were married with dreams of a bright future. Soon, paucity and Roses relentless interference turned hope to despair, and Maggie stood alone against Franks violent outbursts and infidelity.

WWII broke out. London was in ruins. Frank helped free beautiful Lili Stewart from rubble where her wealthy husband and father lay lifeless beside her. He was captivated and pursued her. Mourning the loss of her loved ones and acutely aware of her physical scars, Lili resisted, but Frank was persistent and won her heart. He moved in with her, abandoning Maggie and their six children without culpability.

The children were traumatized when Maggie died of cancer, and Frank and Lili took them in, leaving Rose filled with hatred. The children and Frank felt no connection, and anxiety deepened. Lili witnessed Franks rage for the first time; she became the childrens champion and gave Frank an ultimatum. Fearful of losing her, he took the first tenuous step toward redemption. Confronted by the adult children, he shared his own torment and underwent a catharsis, but the journey was plagued with challenges and tragedies. The family finally left the past behind and moved forward to love and salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984513748

Marie Thompson

Marie Thompson is a transplanted Londoner living in California. Her interests are eclectic, ranging from quantum physics to gardening. Marie has been writing since a young teen, when she won a London school districts essay competition. Selected short stories, poetry and essays were published in two book collections, and her first novel, Clipton Secrets, received Editors Choice distinction. Storm Sparrows is her second novel. She is currently working on a new collection of poetry and essays which will be published by Xlibris shortly.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Marie Thompson.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2018902951

ISBN:                        Hardcover                        978-1-9845-1371-7

                                 Softcover                          978-1-9845-1370-0

                                 eBook                                 978-1-9845-1374-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

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

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

For

my beloved sister Trish

who never stops believing in me.

Storm Sparrows is fiction. Domestic violence is not.

Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over it and whispers, Grow! Grow!

from the Talmud

Chapter One

Margaret Rose—Maggie—was born to Angus and Rose McLellan on the first day of the first month in the first year of the new twentieth century, three years behind her brother, Arthur. Her parents were delighted they now had a son and a daughter. Aye, she’s a wee bonnie lass. Angus looked down at the healthy newborn nestled in his darling wife’s arms. Thank ye, my Rose. You’ve done me proud.

During the first two years of Maggie’s life, Britain underwent dramatic events that caused the country to weep over the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and then, in 1902, to celebrate winning the war against the Boer Republic. She knew little of her father, a bearded Scot in the Royal Highland Regiment’s Second Battalion. He died in South Africa on the day the Boer War ended. When she was older, she studied the sepia colour photographs lining the front room walls, trying to find something familiar about him, but the soldier in the full dress uniform of the dreaded Black Watch Division, complete with kilt and white spats, remained an enigma. A reserved Rose, wearing a glamorous picture hat and a dress with a lace bodice, looked out from another photograph, her gaze giving no clue to what she was thinking. Those were the days, all right, Rose said, looking over Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie thought her mother, with the swept-up hairstyle and soft curls framing her serious yet strikingly lovely face, looked a lot like the new Queen Mary pictured in the newspapers.

The house on Elden Street was typical of those in the East End of London: a small attached row house devoid of ornamentation—in the front, two windows topped the one beside the front door, and there was one upstairs at the back. The plain front door was painted brown; no one remembered when. A scullery with a deep concrete sink and cold running water was kitchen, laundry room, and a semi-private place to attempt personal hygiene with a Saturday sponge-down in a shallow tin tub. The concrete floor was continually damp, and mould permeated the walls throughout the house. The privy was a dark and draughty shed in the tiny backyard that ensured visits were kept as short as possible.

A haberdasher employed Maggie when she left the Sacred Heart Catholic School just after her fourteenth birthday. I’ll take you on, but if you let me down, there won’t be a second chance, the shop owner told her firmly. You’ll not regret it, Mrs. Bradford, Maggie said, her eyes bright with confidence. I will make you well pleased. And she did. She taught herself to sew on her mother’s Singer treadle sewing machine and, using cheap remnants, created two tasteful outfits in flattering colours. She wore her long blonde hair pinned up in a bun and borrowed Rose’s tiny silver earrings. You look lovely, Maggie, Rose assured her. The wealthy female customers approved of her reticent manner—and often requested she model a particular pair of butter-soft leather gloves on her slender hands before they decided on a final purchase. She delighted in their attention, and the petite girl, with a breakaway curl that bounced around her pretty face, looked forward to leaving Elden Street each day. An overprotective mother and her own reserve prevented her from encouraging attention from the opposite sex, but her luminous grey eyes revealed her naiveté and brought to her side charmed male customers who, on occasion, received a gentle reminder to pay for their purchase while they gawked with yearning.

It was during Maggie’s second year of employment when Arthur and his chums, on a surge of patriotism, joined the British Army and volunteered to be shipped to France. Mum, I had to—those Krauts are getting too big for their boots! Arthur’s chest puffed up with self-importance.

You’re a brave lad, Arthur. Just like your dad, Rose declared.

On a warm September morning, she and Maggie joined an enthusiastic crowd cheering and waving small Union Jacks as Arthur’s unit, innocent of the horrors that lay ahead, marched stiffly down the middle of the street behind a brass band playing heart-swelling patriotic music.

There he is, Mum—see? Arthur’s on the end of the second line. Maggie grabbed Rose’s arm, and they broke through the throng lining the pavement. Running along the side of the road in their long tight skirts and pointed-toe boots, they tried to catch up with him.

Arthur—Arthur! Rose called. Over here, son. Arthur! She called until she had no breath left. Do you think he saw us, Maggie?

I’m not sure, Mum. At least he must have heard us, so he knows we were here to see him off. Feeling quite elated, they made their way back to Elden Street and celebrated the day’s excitement with a slice of sponge cake with their afternoon cup of tea.

A telegram was delivered less than three months later, abrupt and to the point. Arthur had been killed in Flanders while bravely attempting to combat the enemy in trench warfare. Rose had anticipated the crushing news—the inconceivably high number of casualties had been leaking back to Britain for some time. Oh, Maggie—it’s hard not having his body to bury and mourn over, she sobbed. Maggie did her best to comfort her mother and did her own weeping in private.

Arthur’s room lay untouched for several months; a pair of trousers lay on the back of a chair, and a drawer remained half open from when he had excitedly packed his kitbag. Eventually, Rose decided it was time for Maggie to have the room as her own. Arthur won’t need it any more, she said sadly. So Maggie left her mother’s bed for the first time in her sixteen years but was hesitant about taking over her brother’s space. I feel him still in there, Mum.

I do too, Maggie, but it’ll be different once we take his things out, Rose assured her.

With Rose’s less-than-enthusiastic encouragement, Maggie sewed curtains from a faded floral bed sheet, turning the remaining material into a cover for a cushion on a rickety wicker chair. She placed her few personal things carefully—a picture of the Sacred Heart was pinned on the wall by the side of the window, and a red paper fan, a birthday present from Arthur several years before, was displayed above the bed.

It looks grand, Maggie!

Beaming, Maggie hugged her mother. Thanks for helping, Mum.

To adjust to the luxury of her own space took a while, but Maggie learned it was where she could be herself, where she had privacy to daydream, and where she could separate herself from her mother’s tireless attention.

Chapter Two

It was a blustery autumn afternoon when Maggie bumped into Franklin Chester. She turned a corner on to King Street and ran straight into his arms.

Oh, excuse me, miss! he said, tilting his hat. I hope I didn’t hurt you? He looked into her pretty face, and time stopped for a moment.

No! Not at all—I wasn’t looking where I was going she insisted, blushing. When his piercing blue eyes caught hers, a feeling of weakness enveloped her, causing her to drop a box of eggs purchased for that evening’s supper. She looked with dismay at the cracked shells leaking across the pavement and knew there would be trouble from Rose when she got home. He saw her distress and introduced himself. I’m Frank Chester, he said, politely shaking her hand. His words had a Cockney lilt to them. We must return to the shop so I can buy replacements. It is the least I can do. Grateful that Rose would not need to know about the accident, Maggie accepted his offer. He casually asked her destination and when she said she was on her way home, he offered to accompany her, explaining he would pass Elden Street on the way to his appointment. Maggie had never experienced the company of a male companion before and was thankful to be wearing her fashionable plaid dress with its pleated skirt. Rose’s eyes were wide when Maggie arrived at the house with the tall handsome stranger. Shyly, Maggie made the introduction, omitting to mention the egg mishap. Frank was very polite, declaring it was only good manners to accompany Maggie home after almost knocking her to the ground. Using his much practiced charm, he quickly won Rose over, and she granted permission for him to call on Maggie without a hint of apprehension.

You seem to be an honourable man, Frank. You are welcome to visit Maggie any time, she declared. The moment she first laid eyes on him, she had taken in his tailored suit, the good leather shoes, and clean fingernails, and concluded he’d got a few bob to rub together. Yes, he was welcome, all right. Rose knew her daughter was pretty by any standard, but Maggie was too shy to encourage attention from a man, let alone one like well-to-do Frank Chester.

Frank did, indeed, call—again and again. Finding Maggie’s pretty looks and innocence irresistible, he surprised himself by making a proposal of marriage, one that was fervently accepted. Maggie was love-struck too.

At Rose’s insistence, they waited a year. Maggie celebrated her eighteenth birthday on the first day of January and set the date for the first day of February. It was a year of enlightenment as Rose quickly learned Frank Chester was anything but well-to-do; in fact, he was as hard up as everyone else they knew. The saving grace was he had a job, and that gave him one up on the rest of the louts hanging around street corners and causing trouble in the pubs. The night before the wedding, Maggie received a heart-to-heart from Rose. I’ll not beat around the bush. Just sit down and listen. In her instructions on wifely duties, she was insensitive to Maggie’s inexperience. It is a wife’s duty to bear her husband’s children. No use complaining—a man has expectations. A woman must make herself available to bring him comfort, no matter how tired or troubled she feels. I was a good wife and gave your dad Arthur and you. Rose went on, her voice without emotion. It’s been a struggle since your dad passed, but he continues on in you, his daughter. Maggie listened respectfully.

Surely, Mum, a husband who loves his wife will treat her kindly?

Rose laughed. Oh, you’ll learn, my girl. You’ll learn.

Finding her mother evasive, Maggie was left with many unanswered questions.

When Frank became aggressive while kissing her, Maggie found her own passion increasing, and it took much control not to give in to his advances. Once they were married, she knew she would welcome his attention.

That first day of February was unseasonably mild. Maggie and Frank resolutely exchanged their wedding vows, each word an eager promise. Although not real silk, Maggie felt beautiful in the ankle-length dress that showed off her pointed satin shoes. She and Rose had decided together on the paper pattern and stitched the delicate rayon material on the sewing machine in the tiny front room. Small lace flowers were added by hand around the dropped waistline. When Maggie put the finished dress on, Rose burst into tears. I wish your dad and Arthur were here to see you. The final touch was a garland of fresh white daisies around Maggie’s head to hold a long gossamer veil in place. Daisies had always been her favourite flower, and she carried them in her bouquet. Frank’s a lucky man, all right! Rose said, wiping her eyes, but Maggie thought she was the lucky one. With a secure job as a mechanic in the garage of the Jack Cole’s Company, Frank was paid a fair wage. Franklin George Chester was a catch. Older than Maggie by six years, he was tall, muscular—with a suave pencil moustache and thick black hair that seemed to emphasise the blue of his eyes. When Maggie walked up the aisle of the Sacred Heart Church on the arm of Alfred, a neighbour, to stand at Frank’s side, his love for her deepened. She looked so frail, so innocent, so lovely. When he lifted her veil to kiss her for the first time as his wife, he felt his heart swell with tenderness. A small iced cake was sliced and served with glasses of sherry to the few guests at the reception, as Rose insisted on calling the simple get-together.

There was no money for a flat of their own, let alone a honeymoon; instead Maggie and Frank took Rose up on her offer of Maggie’s own room. On their wedding night, Maggie abandoned all modesty, freely expressing the delight she discovered in her husband’s passion. She found she had no trouble in performing her duty; Frank was a skilful, attentive lover, and she cried out in pleasure, clasping her husband to her breast in ecstasy. In the darkness, they whispered words of love until their fervour peaked in suppressed gasps, for neither could forget Rose lay behind the paper-thin wall in the next room. Maggie wondered if her mother had ever known such fulfilment in her own nuptial bed.

One evening, Maggie arrived home from the haberdashery a little later than the usual six o’clock. Frank was waiting for her at the front door. What happened to you, girl? I’ve been home over half an hour already!

The bus was full and I had to wait for the next one, that’s all. It doesn’t happen very often—why the fuss?

He gathered her in his arms. I was worried. I think you should give up that job—it’s too much for you.

No, Frank, we need two pay packets if we’re going to have our own place. The money she brought home combined with Frank’s gave her confidence about the future.

We can manage on my wages, luv. I don’t like my wife working. People will think I can’t take care of you.

Who cares what people think? The laugh will be on them when we move away. I enjoy my job. What would I do all day if I didn’t work?

We’ll have a baby soon, then you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied.

Maggie blushed. A baby—oh, Frank. Imagine!

They lived blissfully in the small upstairs room, trying to keep out of Rose’s way. Before the wedding, they had exchanged Arthur’s bed for a double from a second-hand shop and purchased an overstuffed leather armchair. Two upright chairs and a small table eventually followed, and then a brightly patterned rug in tones of blue to cover the worn linoleum. The room was overcrowded and hardly comfortable, but they were satisfied with their first home. Rose left the house early each morning to catch the bus to a couple of private homes where she worked as a domestic, cleaning and doing laundry and ironing. This allowed Frank and Maggie some privacy to enjoy a quick cup of tea and slice of toast before Frank, holding her arm tightly, walked Maggie to her bus stop. I love you, my Maggie, he said as he kissed her goodbye and then rode off on his bicycle to Cole’s Garage.

The war ended that November. The economy was in a disastrous state as the British government financed the war effort by borrowing heavily from the United States of America. Unemployment was high; coal miners were on strike, and those returning home from military service were given precedence for work over the civvies. Frank was lucky he could drive a lorry for there was plenty of transportation work, and he took full advantage whenever Mr. Cole gave him the chance for overtime. At first, Rose liked having the newlyweds upstairs; it brought life to the house again. She considerately tried to make herself scarce when they wanted to use the scullery to wash or when Maggie cooked Frank’s supper. Occasionally, the three of them ate a simple meal together, or Maggie and Rose went shopping at the street market. The costermongers were colourful characters competing loudly for the few pennies potential customers had to spend. Come on, ladies, five pounds of spuds for only tuppence. Can’t get to yer ol’ man’s ’eart any cheaper than that!

One evening, Maggie excitedly showed Frank a couple of new dishes she had purchased. Didn’t we agree we’d hold on to any spare cash? How can we get our own place, if you go spending on things we don’t need? Maggie’s smile faded, but only for a moment. He had his arms around her, and that made everything all right again.

Hearing the high-spirited banter between Frank and Maggie began to irk Rose. She looked back over her own lonely life and resented her daughter’s happiness. Soon, her jealousy contaminated the pleasure the three had shared earlier. It wasn’t long before Rose began belittling Frank to Maggie. You shouldn’t have to work all day. He’s not much of a man if he can’t provide for his wife.

You’re wrong, Mum. Frank takes any overtime he can, and has encouraged me to leave the haberdashery, but I like my job. I’m happy … we get by just fine. Maggie dipped the collar and cuffs of Frank’s blue work shirt into the bowl of milky starch. She was proud of the way Frank looked each morning when he left for the garage—always a clean shirt and pressed overalls. It took work to remove the grease from his clothes, but she made it a priority each evening.

Maggie, for goodness’ sake, not like that! The starch is too thick!

It’s how I usually have it, Mum. Frank’s never complained.

Oh, you’ve got a lot to learn, my girl, Rose snapped.

The young couple quickly realised their living arrangement was a mistake. Rose made no attempt to hide her hostility, but she was the only one they knew who had a spare room. Frank’s wages with overtime added to Maggie’s from the haberdashery would not stretch to cover the rent of the cheapest flat, yet they continued to save a few coins each week, and hoped. Frank’s own family was in no position to help as it, too, lived on the edge of poverty.

Don’t give up, sweetheart. We’ll get through this until we have our own place. Frank tried to reassure his young wife.

Just as long as we’re together, that’s what matters, Maggie replied.

But Maggie’s lack of confidence deepened under Rose’s unrelenting criticism, and she became hesitant to make any decision before asking her mother for advice. Eventually, little was done without Rose’s approval.

Maggie gained solace in Frank’s arms. I never do anything right. Why do you put up with me?

I love you, that’s why, he said, kissing her tenderly. Your mum’s a mean old cow, he groaned. I can’t take much more of her, Maggie.

Rose’s influence on Maggie grew stronger. In time, Maggie became silent and passive in Frank’s arms. She kept remembering her mother’s callous explanation of wifely duties, and her awakened sexuality consumed her with guilt. A decent woman would never have such feelings of abandonment and pleasure—a wife was to be available, not encourage her husband’s touch. Her inhibitions eventually turned the intimacy that she and Frank enjoyed so freely at first, into something tainted.

Time passed; the first year led to another, and then another. But no baby joined them.

Are you taking care of Frank? Rose demanded. If you don’t, he’ll go elsewhere, believe me.

Maybe I can’t have children.

Rubbish! You should give up that job. Being on your feet all day can’t be helping.

Maggie relented and reluctantly gave her notice at the haberdashery after seven years of happy employment. She was surprised by Frank’s outburst when she told him.

You should have discussed it with me first, Maggie! We need your wages more than ever. How are we going to ever get out of here? His blue eyes flashed angrily.

You told me to leave the shop years ago—you said then we’d manage. I thought you’d be pleased so we can concentrate on making a baby, she said timidly.

Oh, Maggie! We barely manage to take care of ourselves but a baby too? He looked at her, and his love for her softened his tone. Well, what’s done is done—we’ll just have to make the best of it, he said, putting his arms around her, but there’ll be no extra money to save now. They held on to each other that night, but neither received relief from the gloom that pressed down on them.

Determined to get pregnant, Maggie stayed in bed for several hours after she and Frank were intimate. Keep your hips and feet up on pillows. It’ll give you a better chance for things to take, Rose instructed. Maggie followed Rose’s instructions consistently month after month, but without the longed-for result. You must be doing something wrong, my girl! No one’s gone on this long without getting knocked up. Rose threw her hands up in disgust. The doctor had assured Maggie there was nothing wrong with her physically, but the disappointment was profound each time Maggie informed Frank her monthly cycle had come again. She was humiliated, particularly when Frank told her his mates at work were ragging him about it. Want us to show you what to do, Frank? The strain between them was palpable. Their small room closed in on them, and Frank’s temper began to flare up more. Eventually, the couple accepted they would be childless. Their regret went deep, but neither expressed their sorrow with the other, losing an opportunity to share the heartbreaking disappointment they both grappled with. Their earlier happiness was rapidly ebbing from their lives.

Chapter Three

Maggie was twenty-four before she was with child. Married six years, she had accepted long ago Frank took advantage of willing young women at the pub, but the news that she had twice missed her period was received with both disbelief and cautious excitement. The following couple of months were fraught with anxiety but Maggie flourished. As her body changed and Frank could feel the child move within her, he became sentimental and considerate, and they dared to fantasise again about the future.

I’ll have to learn to knit—better keep to white or yellow colours to be on the safe side. Don’t want to put a son in pink! Maggie giggled, her face glowing with happiness.

Mustn’t get too much stuff for the baby until it’s born. You don’t want to bring bad luck.

That’s just a daft superstition, Rose. Frank’s eyes narrowed, warning her. He did not want Maggie upset—there was too much at stake now.

The last weeks of the pregnancy were busy. Frank exchanged his bicycle for a cot at the pawnshop, and painted it yellow. Maggie cut pictures of flowers and animals from magazines and stuck them on the wall above the cot with a paste made from flour and water. She and Rose spent hours knitting a layette, sewing blankets and sheets, and cutting squares of absorbent muslin for nappies. Their fingers and eyes ached from working until daylight faded. These will give the little tyke a good start, they agreed happily.

The long-awaited day eventually came. Maggie’s water broke and she quickly went into labour. Rose made her as comfortable as possible in her own bed after placing a large sheet of plastic over the mattress, and tended to her until late afternoon shadows leached through the grime-covered sashed windows. The contractions were strong but irregular, and drained Maggie’s strength. Determined Frank would not hear a sound from her as he waited nervously downstairs, Maggie bit down hard on a rolled-up piece of towel when the pain intensified. Many arduous hours passed, but no tiny head crowned.

Rose became alarmed and called to Frank. Get the midwife, Frank, and be quick about it! Tell her the baby’s still not come.

Is Maggie okay? Rose? There was no answer. Rose had scurried back into the room and closed the door behind her.

Panicked, Frank ran to the next street. He soon returned with the local midwife, a rounded woman with compassion in her eyes. Thank god you got here quickly, Vera. My Maggie’s in trouble. Rose was exhausted with worry.

I’ll take care of everything, don’t you fret, Rose, the woman soothed.

In a while, Frank heard her kindly voice encouraging Maggie to push, and a few minutes later, a baby’s first cry. His pride knew no bounds when Vera told him he had a healthy son.

Maggie delivered without serious complications, but she will take time to recover, Vera announced, so you show her a lot of love and care, Frank. She deserves it.

Holding a bunch of white daisies, he galloped up the stairs to Maggie’s side, and looked upon the baby with wonder. It’s a miracle, Maggie! He held Maggie in his arms as tears of joy ran down his cheeks. I gave up hope long ago, but you did it, girl, you did it!

They named the baby John after his paternal grandfather, although Frank had not seen his father for over a decade, but Maggie had always liked the name. Inexperienced as parents, they grudgingly turned to Rose for advice, which she gave readily. John’s first tooth, his first word, and first unsteady step were all joyfully recorded in a small notebook Maggie kept for such occasions. He is the most perfect boy, they all agreed.

Another son quickly followed—too quickly, as if Maggie’s body was making up for her barren years. This time, Maggie delivered in the Sacred Heart Hospital on doctor’s orders. John’s birth had indicated things could become complicated. They called the baby Will, for no particular reason. He was not as warmly welcomed as John, and his progress was disregarded. John still slept in the cot, but Will slept in a wooden drawer that offered little comfort with its rigid sides. He was a fussy, needy baby. That kid is colicky, I can tell you. You need to do something to keep him quiet, Rose insisted.

The strain of birthing two babies within a short time had exhausted Maggie’s body, and she tended to them in a sleep-deprived haze. Her engorged breasts were suckled until raw, encouraging her milk to spill and soak her clothes. The small room was unmanageable with its limited space, and piles of soiled washing soon took over. She started sleeping on the lumpy leather chair in an effort to discourage Frank’s advances, and he began brooding. Mr. Cole gave him the opportunity to take on more overtime at the garage, and he gratefully worked every extra hour, but his wages still could not meet the growing household’s financial demands. The shortage of money was crushing, but being deprived of physical comfort from Maggie was worse and he forced himself on her for release. Humiliation and despair pushed the couple farther apart.

I don’t know what to do, Mum. Can you help us out a little? I wouldn’t ask for myself, but the boys need so much! Maggie whined.

Don’t think you can get any money from me, my girl. I work hard for my wages. You made your bed, now you must lie in it! She was unyielding.

In an effort to control the rage festering within him, Frank began to shut himself away in the front room. He played pieces of classical music on the old upright piano Maggie’s father had bought many years before—music he had heard on the radio and had somehow retained the notes in the depths of his memory. The day came, however, when his rage exploded into a forceful outburst, and his fists lashed out at his young wife. She withdrew into herself, and he was filled with shame.

After Frank left for work each morning, Rose quickly made her way to her cleaning job. Alone, Maggie washed piles of dirty clothes on a scrub-board in the scullery with hands that were no longer her pride. The corroded mangle did a poor job of squeezing the remaining grime from Frank’s overalls that seemed to bleed grease into the rest of the wash, and leave baby bonnets and shawls a dull grey to dry on the clothesline strung across the overgrown yard. Soiled muslin squares used by the babies boiled on the back of the gas stove in a bucket of water doused with a good measure of soap flakes—the accepted formula for killing germs—but it did nothing for the rancid smell that spread to every recess of the house. Rose cursed audibly under her breath.

Frank’s pay was stretched to the last penny, and Maggie, her pride long gone, took to scrounging cabbage trimmings or spoiled vegetables from the metal bins at the back of the greengrocer’s before they were collected for the pig farms. She carefully picked through the windfall, adding what she could to pieces of potato or grains of rice to make a hot soup that was filling and quieted the colicky baby. Each day followed another in a monotonous grind, and her grey eyes lost their light.

Frank could not endure being in the oppressive, overcrowded house, even though its proliferation was his own doing. His temper worsened. Maggie was not surprised when she learned he was unfaithful again. Why not? She had seen her reflection in a mirror. Threadbare clothes, thickened body, and faded looks stared back. Without rancour, she acknowledged he was still handsome and could turn on the charm as easily as a light switch, so she never questioned the neighbour’s gossip.

I thought you should know, Maggie. He picks up any cow who’s keen, Nora from next door reported, words she herself had heard about her own husband.

I’m glad you told me, Maggie said simply, but Nora had confirmed what she already knew. She kept the news to herself, knowing she had no one to go to except Rose, and Maggie did not want to hear her say again she was a fool.

Filled with sorrow, she willed herself to get through each day as normally as possible, and silently performed her wifely duty on demand, as directed by her mother years before. In due course and without fanfare, she gave birth to three more children at the Sacred Heart Hospital: a daughter, Rachel, another son, Kenneth, and then another daughter, Anna—escaping from the house briefly for each event.

Frank’s absence at each birth was conspicuous. The nursing nuns on the maternity ward were gentle with her—conscious of the unexplained bruises on her body, they encouraged her to talk about her home life. Maggie was not the first abused woman they had encountered; the majority of their female patients suffered the same fate. Beatings by drunken husbands were all too common among those who struggled with poverty and hopelessness. Maggie began to soften with the nurses’ attention and was close to opening up, but the guilt of being disloyal to Frank held her back. Everything is fine, really, she insisted. My husband can’t visit me because of his work. When she returned to Elden Street, Frank disappeared from the house for days at a time. When he did return, it was with a sour belly from too much beer and a malicious temper outburst.

My god, I regret the day I encouraged you to have a kid! I never thought you and that sod would end up reproducing like rabbits! Rose snarled. It was the biggest mistake of my life having you here! Your bloody brood has taken over my whole house! Maggie stood alone in the line of fire. Frank anesthetised himself with alcohol.

The life of the Chester family was no different from their neighbours on Elden Street and neighbourhoods beyond. The houses and occupants were alike—lacking individual identity but somehow enduring under the burden of neglect and grime. The weight of poverty crushed any hope of escape. The women aged long before their years—the toll of repeated pregnancies used up their bodies until they became shadows of themselves. Once-loving husbands now beat their passive wives in a desperate effort to reassure themselves that at least they had power over their women. The deeper their despair, the more violent their retaliation against it.

Although she watched every farthing, Maggie made an effort to celebrate the children’s birthdays. As they grew older, the restricted space of the house became even more of a challenge and certainly afforded no room for young friends to be invited to the austere celebrations—but no one minded. Rose continued with her habit of hounding Maggie, but when the children began to develop personalities and call her Granny, she became indulgent with them. Maggie’s gifts were sensible: often some underwear or a second-hand shirt or jumper she picked up from a church jumble sale. Rose’s newspaper-wrapped package was guaranteed to bring a flush of excitement to the birthday child’s cheek. She watched with pleasure but would have had difficulty admitting that love for the brood had awakened. The paper was quickly ripped open by small anxious hands, and cries of excitement filled the room as a picture book, pencil box, or a rag doll was discovered. Sometimes, with a lot of urging from Maggie, Frank turned up in time to have a piece of the bread pudding sprinkled with white powdered sugar. With both parents present and a grandmother’s devotion, the children felt part of a real family—particularly if they could persuade Frank to stay the night. It was only a fantasy because Frank was soon gone, but not before impregnating Maggie for the sixth time.

Rose berated Maggie mercilessly for her quiet acceptance. You fool, Maggie! You need to get a backbone, my girl! That’s been your trouble all along. You let him get away with everything!

He followed me when I went out to the privy.

And you obliged and dropped your knickers? How in god’s name are we going to manage with another baby?

I don’t know, Mum, Maggie answered brokenly. I can’t take any more—I’m sick of struggling.

When he heard she was pregnant again, Frank showed no remorse—and no further interest in her worn out body. Thank god he will leave me alone now, she said. If we’re lucky, one of them tarts will take him in for good.

Eventually, she gave birth to her last child without fanfare. The children were excited to greet their new sister, but that wore off quickly when the tiny newcomer kept them awake night after night with howls that filled the airless house. She was called Beth, the first name Maggie thought of. Frank scarcely acknowledged the baby with a glance.

Chapter Four

Beth was six months old when Britain declared war on Germany in September 1939. The family knew little about why but were terrified when clouds of German aircraft with pulsating engines swept over London. Releasing payloads of bombs, they caused total devastation of entire neighbourhoods. The government supplied every citizen—including babies—with a gas mask in a cardboard box, and they were expected to have it with them at all times. A blackout was also strictly enforced, resulting in every window and door being covered to prevent even the slightest escape of light to the outside for fear the enemy would see where to drop its bombs. Low wattage light bulbs were painted black with a small clear spot at the base so light would only shine down. A hefty fine was paid by anyone not complying. Street and public building lighting was turned off, causing dozens of accidents and fatalities. Many wondered if the world was coming to an end. At Elden Street, the children became too afraid to use the outhouse in the dark, so Maggie put a bucket with a couple of spoonfuls of carbolic acid in the corner of the scullery. At dusk she switched on the lights that were so dim, they could hardly see beyond a foot in front of them. Somehow she and the children adjusted to whatever challenge presented itself, but it took enormous effort and persistence. The three older children kept up at school, much to Maggie’s pride, but Kenny, with a shock of red hair and a peppery temper, was rebellious and put himself at odds with his siblings.

He argues about everything, Mum, and always wants the last word. He’s his father’s son, all right, Maggie complained.

It’s his age. All boys are problems—except my Arthur, of course, Rose stressed, although those two little ones are a handful. That Anna torments everyone she lays eyes on until they give in and play with her. And that baby—she never stops jabbering or crying! Beth’s rambling was attributed to Anna’s persistent teasing.

The following May, Winston Churchill was elected as the new British prime minister, replacing Neville Chamberlain, who was shamed into resigning by his failure to broker peace with Germany the year before, thus, guaranteeing war. Churchill’s rallying speeches united the British people but did nothing to bring relief from the air raids. The austerity bearing down on them was no different from the year before. Wave after wave of enemy aircraft continued to fill the skies; their thunderous drone was terrifying. Lacking any culpability, the absent Frank left the children without reassurance when bomb craters appeared along Elden Street. Their hearts jumped in terror as explosions made the foundation of the small house tremble and clouds of plaster dust to rise up and irritate their young lungs. When is Daddy coming home? Anna asked the question on all the children’s minds. Maggie gave the only answer she could—the honest one. I don’t know. At night they huddled together on their sagging mattresses, ready to make a dash for the designated scullery when the siren wailed. The water pipes will hold up the walls, Rose assured, praying she was right. Fear was always present; when they opened their eyes each morning, they confronted another day of dread and want. The government moved quickly to launch a second evacuation of young children to areas deemed safe, but Maggie and Rose decided they would all stay together, no matter the outcome. The older children sought every opportunity to escape the house where the tension weighed down on them, but the three younger ones knew nothing else.

Whenever the moon was up during night sorties, the River Thames became a ribbon of light leading the German bombers to London, where they turned the city into a giant conflagration. London’s glorious architectural masterpieces became blackened piles of rubble. An ominous rosy hue from the inferno stained the sky as building after building was reduced to cinders. Thousands of missiles descended like diving flocks of frigate birds intent on massacring their prey. The staggering number of casualties increased daily. Few families escaped a visit from the air raid police who, stumbling over their words, reported heartbreaking losses. Yet, in spite of the destruction and loss of life, there were those who were determined to maintain a sense of normality. Damage to plaster and brick was ignored. Shattered windows, looking like eyeless sockets in grey expressionless faces, were covered over with blankets and old tablecloths. Brass letterboxes and doorknockers gleamed after daily polishing, and doorsteps were freshly scrubbed. The rebellious British spirit was stirring.

After supper it became a habit for the family to gather around the radio to listen to the six o’clock news.

Hurry, Mum. It’s about to start, Kenny called, making room for her on the settee.

Coming, luv.

In the chilly darkened room, they settled in front of a dismal fire of twisted newspaper strips for the ten-minute broadcast. Will switched the radio on just as the newscaster was presenting the latest list of cities destroyed and the number of civilian casualties. The precise articulation was monotone, emotionless. Conservation of water and energy was urged, and then came the announcement that the Prime Minister would speak momentarily. The newscaster paused for a brief moment; then, with unabashed satisfaction, proclaimed the Royal Air Force had won the air battle of Britain against a German offensive.

Blimey, did you hear that? Ken said, his eyes wide. He said the battle of Britain? Does that mean the war is over, John?

I wish.

When Prime Minister Churchill spoke, he united the listening British audience with unwavering words that were both courageous and defiant, stressing Britain would never surrender. The children jumped up, laughing and whooping, but were quickly subdued as the air raid siren wailed once again. The war was not over yet. The German Luftwaffe had been unable to destroy the Royal Air Force, but it was still determined to crush the country.

In October, St Paul’s Cathedral luckily escaped an incendiary bomb attack, but the surrounding historic buildings were not so lucky. Bombarded by missiles designed to cause fires, they quickly became engulfed. Oppressive black smoke stretched for miles. Gasping for air, exhausted firemen and volunteers fought gallantly to contain the firestorm. It seemed the whole city was on fire. Days later, the shattered remains were blanketed in a blizzard of ash that could do nothing to soften the physical and emotional impact of complete obliteration. Rose and Maggie, petrified by the intensifying danger, promised each other no matter what happened, the children were to always take priority.

You can count on me, Maggie.

You, me, too, Mum. Forget about Frank.

And they did, as much as was possible; although rarely, he still showed up at Elden Street when it suited him.

Bleak press and radio headlines continued on through 1941 and brought the British to a level of despair that left them numb. The Germans bombed Swansea in South Wales for three nights, killing 230 and injuring 409. In Clydebank, Scotland, 528 people died, hundreds were seriously injured, and 35,000 were made homeless. In Plymouth, 336 were killed. In Belfast, Ireland, 900 were killed and 1,500 injured. Merseyside reported 1,700 deaths and over l,000 injured. London had the heaviest air raid of the year. It seemed a sane world would never be known again. Ships were lost to German submarines, including the famed aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal that had sunk the German battleship Bismarck. Two principal battleships, the HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, were destroyed by the Japanese.

Chapter Five

Liliana—Lili—was the only daughter of Italian immigrants Angelina and Lorenzo Mancini. She was a tall, olive-skinned beauty with polished hair and eyes the colour of deep cinnamon; her warm smile came easily, showing off perfect white teeth. Spoiled by doting parents and an older brother, she lived secure in a charmed life. Married for fourteen years to indulgent Samuel Stewart, she still turned many a man’s head but caused no resentment from other women because her devotion to her handsome husband was never in question. Thanks to the considerable wealth Samuel inherited from his parents, they lived in luxury and entertained often in their comfortable home in London’s Charing Cross, a historic area within walking distance to the River Thames Embankment. In spite of the hardship and suffering of the war, the devoted couple driving around the city in a green Austin convertible, lived as fully as possible.

Because of the government’s imposed blackout, there were no street lights, but the moon was bright when Lili and Samuel cautiously drove her father home from Alberto’s small bedsitter in the London district of Whitechapel, where the two old friends met regularly to play dominos. Her mother had passed away the year before, and Lili made sure Lorenzo had little time to be lonely. She and Samuel encouraged him to spend time with Alberto, even though it took them a distance from their own neighbourhood. Over glasses of Sicilian Chianti and slices of spicy salami, the elderly men reminisced about their lost youth in Italy and the downfall of the world, according to their perspective.

Papa, you had a good time? Lili asked.

"Oh, si, Lili. Alberto’s a good man."

Lorenzo’s Italian accent was unmistakable although he had lived in Britain since the Great War. Once Britain entered the second war, he was treated with suspicion and called ugly names by scruffy schoolboys or wary neighbours. The vile words hurt more now Angelina could no longer console him, but he was grateful for his beloved daughter’s attention. The car crawled along in the gloom against a cold drizzle. Jarring warning sirens suddenly whined through the wet streets, announcing another air attack. Although only a short distance from Lorenzo’s small flat, Samuel decided not to gamble on being out in the open unnecessarily. It isn’t worth the risk, he said, pulling the car over to a kerb painted with reflective white markings. Such markings had been added to landmarks throughout the city. At night, the jumbled mass of illumination looked completely chaotic from the air, confusing German pilots as to where to drop their ferocious loads.

Samuel helped Lili and Lorenzo out of the car and hurried them into the nearby Church of the Sacred Heart. We’ll be safe here, he assured.

It is my place of worship. I will speak with Angelina, Lorenzo said.

It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight. The sanctuary was crowded and included a number of small children. Several nuns worked their prayer beads while offering words of comfort to the faithful. Strangers talked quietly together; others crossed themselves in their anxiety.

Let’s sit over there, Samuel suggested, and guided Lorenzo and Lili to a pew at the back of the nave.

Let me help you, Papa, Lili whispered, supporting the frail man as he knelt to pray.

Soon, the sound of aircraft engines grew louder, quickening the hearts of those gathered in the gloom. The German bombers, heavy with cargoes of annihilation, flew directly overhead, causing the centuries-old vaulted ceilings to tremble and a thick layer of mortar dust to settle on the shoulders of the terrified flock below.

Oh, god! Lili cried out in terror, clutching at Samuel.

Hold on, darling. Samuel clasped Lili and Lorenzo in his arms. They clung together as the terrifying whine of hundreds of released bombs grew louder. Suddenly, there was stomach-churning silence—the terrifying signature of the V-1 Buzz bomb, and the church blew apart.

Frank was on his way to the pub after a full day at Cole’s Garage when the air raid warning went off, and he sullenly took shelter in the crowded Underground. When the all-clear siren sounded, he got out quickly, eager to have fresh air in his lungs—the rank atmosphere from so many people assembled on the train platforms made him retch. He was disheartened to see the result of the attack was going to get in his way of having that anticipated pint of draught. Bugger! He could practically taste it. Grudgingly, he set out for Elden Street. Although he felt no allegiance there, he could count on a hot cup of tea and a snack. Rose’s guaranteed nagging would be a pain in the arse, but he had nowhere else to go just now. He smirked. He had the guarantee of a warm bed later, however. Smoke and flames appeared to be everywhere, bringing illusory daylight to