Dorothy’s War

I dedicate this book to two women who have given me friendship, support and argument since 1987.

Heartfelt thanks go to Diane Pearson, who discovered me (actually, I discovered her long before I met her – wonderful writer) and Linda Evans, who kicked in when Diane retired.

Diane, you taught me everything I know about this writing game. Linda, no one else on God’s earth could have filled Di’s shoes. Sometimes, you even sound like her. Never mind, it may be curable.

Ruthie XXX

Acknowledgements

Avril Cain, for laughs, for peppered steaks on Saturdays, for accidents with wheelchairs, dogs, cats, post offices, fine red wines, knickers, bathrooms, kettles, bottles of milk, keys, sofas, spectacles, certain items dropped on College Road and all the other day-to-day chaos with which this priceless sufferer from MS regales me. I love you, Avril.

Simon Topliss, for helping me through the death of Queen Victoria. I was not around at the time – Simon certainly wasn’t – and he found out the exact time, etc., for me. I think I would have liked old Victoria.

The Bolton Evening News – especially Angela Kelly – for unswerving support through what begins to feel like a lifetime.

David, Sue, Michael, Lizzie, Sam, Fudge, Jack and Vera – my family (human and animal) – and the expected grandson, who is keeping us all on our toes and his mother awake at night.

ONE

‘SHE’S NOT PULLING out of it.’ Elsie Shipton shoved a stray steel curler back into place beneath the green scarf she wore turban-fashion round a busy head. That head was seldom still. Emblem Street residents had decided that if they wanted to know the state of the nation, they needed only to look at Elsie Shipton’s head. It was now bobbing about like a cork on heavy tidal waters. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best, I’m sure – it’s like talking to the wall. That’s a right bloody nosedive she’s in, Lois.’

‘Not as bad as her poor husband’s nosedive, though.’

‘That remark were in bad taste.’ The head, motionless for a split second, stepped up a gear. ‘Battle of Britain the poor lad were in and don’t you forget it, Lois Melia. We mustn’t make light of our fallen heroes.’ Rear gunners never got a chance, she mused. And he’d been a lovely young man, Stephen Dyson – well groomed, polite, a hard worker. They didn’t make many of his sort wherever men got minted. That saying about the good dying young had been well illustrated in the Battle of Britain and at Dunkirk. If this carried on, half the young men in the armed forces wouldn’t be coming home at all.

‘I didn’t mean nothing by it.’

‘Aye, well, think on before you talk. That mouth of yours has a mind of its own – it wants connecting to your proper brain, if you’ve got one. I’ve enough on worrying about her in the middle without mithering over you putting both feet in your gob every time you open it. Her in the middle’s not well. I’ve tried chatting, sitting with her, getting her some pork we’d be best not talking about – I even laid my hands on a couple of extra ounces of Cheddar last week, but she couldn’t be bothered. She’s not right and she’s as thin as a rake. Her’ll end up in Tonge Cemetery if she doesn’t shape.’

Lois Melia, a large woman in her late forties, dragged a tray of jam tarts out of the fireside oven. ‘I’m sick of plum jam,’ she said quietly.

But not quietly enough. Elsie Shipton homed in again. ‘Young Steve Dyson’d be glad to be sat here eating plum jam. Give over moaning till you’ve something proper to moan about.’

Lois bridled. It wasn’t often that a person found the temerity to lock horns with Elsie Shipton, but enough was enough. ‘Listen, Elsie. I know I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, only it’s hard enough with Dorothy Dyson to think about every time I speak – God love her. If I have to watch every word while you’re around, I might as well join a bloody nunnery and be done with it. I’m tired unto death of treading on eggshells.’

Elsie sniffed, clicked her tongue and lit a treasured Woodbine. Lois Melia was getting above herself, and, at her size, would have been better staying at ground level. Though she did resemble a fully inflated barrage balloon … ‘I’ve lived in this street all my married life, I’ll have you know.’

‘I do know. We all know. You tell us often enough.’

‘Aye, well, that’s as may be. She needs help. I can’t just hang about like boiled ham at four-pence while she’s in a decline. Four months is a long time to sit there doing nowt. Losing her baby put the tin hat on her life and I can tell you that for no money. I’ve seen women go clean off their heads after a miscarriage. She’s got nobody except her mam and dad and, well, the least said about them the better, from the sound of things.’ According to Dorothy-in-the-middle, her mam, Molly Cornwell, wasn’t worth the ink on her birth certificate. ‘It’s a damned shame, Lois, and I feel one hundred per cent bloody useless.’

‘Me and all, Elsie. I feel lost and that’s the top and bottom.’ Lois sank into a chair. Her feet were killing her and she was getting a headache, too. Elsie Shipton in full sail was enough to give anybody multiple ailments. ‘It’s hard, Elsie. I can’t lay my finger on a single sensible idea for Dorothy. And it’s not for want of trying – we’ve both tried, you and me.’

‘I know, love. See, apart from this, that and the other, she’s supposed to work. Which is what I came here to talk about. There’s going to be the Ministry of Don’t Stop at Home on Your Backsides now, isn’t there? Even I cook a few dinners at the munitions, and I’m in my sixties. She’s nowt more than a spring chicken compared to me. We’ll have to shove her into something before she gets parked with the yellow girls. I’m not having her turned into a yellow girl on top of everything else.’ The ‘yellow girls’ made weaponry for the troops, and the chemicals involved were responsible for their apparently jaundiced complexions.

‘Where, though?’ Lois placed her tarts on a cooling rack. ‘Where can she sit doing bugger all for the war effort? Because she never blinking well moves, does she? Oh, blood and stomach pills – here we go again.’ The sirens were screaming. The big woman jumped up with all the energy she could muster and closed the blackout curtains. ‘See you later,’ she called after Elsie’s disappearing back.

Before going home, Elsie Shipton entered the house between hers and Lois Melia’s. Dorothy Dyson was huddled over a weak fire, a half-eaten sandwich and a cup resting on the fireguard. Without speaking a word, Elsie covered Dorothy’s window. She stared at the young woman for a few seconds, then went next door to ensure that her own home was showing no light to the Luftwaffe. It was a crazy world and no mistake. Something wanted doing, and quickly. That bloody Hitler needed shooting for a start, the mad bugger.

Elsie sat by her fire and realized that she was crying. For some inexplicable reason, the woman next door was the embodiment of war and its senselessness. She wondered when Dorothy-in-the-middle had last taken a bath. And how was she managing for money? There had to be a limit to the length of time a person could keep still, keep quiet and keep eating.

Stirring herself, she picked up a pan of broth and set it on the fire. Somebody had to carry on carrying on, she pondered. But her thoughts remained on the other side of the wall as she waited for explosions or the all clear. Perhaps Dorothy Dyson had it right after all, because there seemed precious little point to any of it.

She knew every crack in the wall, every stripe on her tablecloth, each clip of cloth pegged into the rug. She had pegged the rug herself and Steve had helped. Help was, perhaps, an inappropriate word for the mess he had made, a mess she had undone during his absence. He’s absent all the time now. Time. The clock was noisy and she couldn’t understand why she wound it every night. It was probably habit. I wasn’t made to be on my own. Is Mam right? Can I not manage by myself? Am I completely useless and spineless and frail?

Under the staircase, there was a horsehair sofa that had once belonged to Steve’s gran. It accepted only one person as sitting tenant, because the slope of the stairs prevented a second from occupying the bottom end. It was all right for lying on, though. Dorothy didn’t go upstairs any more. When her physical mechanism demanded sleep, she spread an old blanket on the prickly couch, placed a pillow at the end nearest the coal-hole door, and slept there under an eiderdown. The marital bed had been cold for months. She couldn’t sleep in that great big thing knowing that he would never come back.

The baby had been lost on that sofa. Blood everywhere, a knife twisting in her belly, losing Steve all over again. Tiny doll, perfect, pale, no bigger than one of my hands. Why? What had she done wrong? Elsie from next door had been here that night, had been crying when the baby had emerged after just five months in the womb. I didn’t cry. The blank time had gone on for a while now. It was almost as if Dorothy had died in that moment when the telegram had been opened.

There were bombs quite near. They would be going for munitions or for Barton aerodrome over at Manchester, but they were forever missing their targets by miles. Trinity Street station might well have been on the Germans’ list, as might factories. She should have been in a shelter, yet she had never bothered, not since the baby. The neighbours didn’t bother, either. There had been the odd stray missile, but no apparent targeting of Bolton. Perhaps tonight would be the night; perhaps she would escape at last.

Her thoughts were breaking up again, were becoming bits and pieces that fluttered about in her head like a cloud of disorientated butterflies.

Oh, she suddenly remembered the Regent cinema on Deane Road. They had gone there together, she and Steve, had ignored the air raid warning on the screen. A few other people had stayed, too, but she could not remember the name of the film. Then he had gone away and he wasn’t coming back. Pots on a shelf rattled – the Germans were up above. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was all over the place – the Regent cinema, walking on the moors, waving goodbye at the station. Goodbye, Steve. I love you.

Dorothy Dyson heard her own, the one with her name on it. It whistled. The whistle became a scream and she remained where she was, in his chair by the fire. There was a cigarette burn on one of the arms. Steve had burnt the hole and had gone down in a burning plane. Soon, she would join him. Why was it taking so long? Was God enjoying her endless wait for death?

The earth shook and the noise was deafening. Air seemed to be sucked out of the room; her chair was thrown back against the window. Glass shattered, landed in her hair. But she wasn’t dead. She could feel the warm blood pouring down her face and the air she breathed was full of dust. Her lungs did their job automatically, forcing her to cough up the grit she had inhaled. I am alive. I am not going to be released from this. God is making me go on and on and I don’t want that.

Rumblings continued outside. It was cold. Someone shouted, ‘Gas!’ and she rose to her feet, the ground trembling as she walked towards the scullery. There was no scullery; the single-storey room had been sliced off the back of the house like a portion of cake. There was rubble everywhere and it was still moving. Elsie. Where is Elsie? Elsie, who has done her very best for me, who sat with me and coaxed me into eating, may be dead. The Germans had not dropped gas, had they? That shouted warning had probably referred to the fuel that lit these houses and served the gas rings in the sculleries. Where is Elsie?

Clambering across mobile rubble, Dorothy managed to get into the yard next door. The wall between numbers 32 and 34 no longer existed and the flat slabs from which it had been constructed served as a bridge over which she staggered. There was blood in her eyes. ‘Elsie?’ The smell of gas was almost overpowering. ‘Elsie?’

Elsie Shipton appeared at a hole in the wall, a gap created by another absent window. ‘Dorothy?’

‘Get out, now,’ the younger woman ordered. ‘Come on, you’ve no time, there’s gas. Move, move,’ she screamed.

Elsie was in shock. ‘Lois is on fire,’ she managed eventually.

‘Gas,’ repeated Dorothy. ‘The planes might come back. Come on, we’ll run up to my mam’s house.’ There was nowhere else, was there? ‘We could have an explosion any minute, Elsie. You have to hurry up.’

Elsie’s head began to nod. ‘You don’t talk to your mam.’ Dorothy Dyson never spoke to anyone, but she was talking now, wasn’t she? ‘God, what a mess.’ Acrid smoke mingled with dust to make a soup that threatened near-blindness and the inability to breathe. ‘I hope he’s all right.’ ‘He’ was her husband, Pete, who was employed to drive medical supplies to hospitals and first-aid points all over the northwest.

‘Any port in a storm,’ answered Dorothy. And this was some storm.

But Elsie was going nowhere without Lois. She looked towards number 36, saw flames coming from the scullery. The gas main would blow any minute, she felt sure. Holding on to Dorothy’s skirt, Elsie made her way towards the gap where the back gate had hung, stumbling on bricks every other step.

Out in the back alley, the pair stood and watched the warden carrying Lois out of her house. She was limp, arms dangling towards the floor, one slipper missing, apron torn. ‘She’s dead,’ whispered Elsie. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The war was somewhere else – mostly in London. ‘Lois can’t be dead.’

Steve couldn’t be dead, but he was. ‘Elsie, let’s go. There’s nothing you can do here and—’

‘She moved. Her head moved.’ Elsie took a step towards her friend. ‘Look after her,’ she told the warden. ‘She’s precious. I’ve known her half my life. Save her, or you’ll have me to answer to.’

The warden, in a hurry to escape from the leaking gas, shouted at Elsie and Dorothy, ordering them to leave the area. ‘Now!’ he boomed. ‘Get out of here before you both end up in bits and in buckets.’ He made his way to the bottom of the street, Lois’s considerable bulk causing him to call for help. Only when two wardens had disappeared with their human burden did Elsie allow herself to be propelled towards the main road.

They stood on Derby Street and watched the houses burning. Elsie, deeply shocked, found no words while her life went up in flames. She clung to Dorothy, a woman who, until this night, had spoken few words in months. It occurred to her that the bomb had done some good for her neighbour, because this was the first time in ages that Dorothy had shown any sign of life. The gas main blew, causing more damage than any bomb. ‘I hope they all got out,’ whispered Elsie.

‘Come on.’ Dorothy led the way up the road and into View Street. From the top of the hill, they saw, via the one flat side of Bolton, a red sky with explosions on the ground below. ‘They’ve got Manchester,’ said Elsie. ‘God help us, there’ll be nobody left.’

Dorothy stared at a door she had not seen in some time. Even in the dark, she knew it: brass knocker, brass letterbox, the number 33 – also in brass – at the top. I don’t want to be here, but there’s nowhere else to go. She knocked.

‘They’ll be in the shelter,’ Elsie muttered, her throat thick with dust.

Mam wouldn’t go in a shelter. Mam wouldn’t mix with her neighbours, had never been one for cups of tea, or chats over a wall. Dad wasn’t much better, although he didn’t share Molly Cornwell’s cruel streak.

The door opened and an eye peeped out. ‘Who is it?’

‘Me,’ replied Dorothy, ‘and my neighbour. We’ve been bombed out.’

The gap widened. ‘Get in before I start showing light.’

The two women entered a dim hallway and were led through to a rear living room. ‘You’re hurt.’ Molly Cornwell studied her daughter, who had turned her back on her family some four or five years ago. Dorothy wasn’t fit to be out in all this noise, had never been fit for much. ‘Sit down.’ She went to get the first aid box from the sideboard.

Dorothy sat. She made not the slightest sound while her mother picked glass from her hair and cleaned the scalp. I shouldn’t be here. I should be with Steve, but there is no Steve and I can’t come back to this.

Elsie, too shocked to notice much, remarked inwardly that her next door neighbour seemed to be reverting to type: no noise, no movement, no effort. ‘All our stuff will be gone,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t mean furniture and the like. It’s photos and memories that matter. It’s all gone up. The gas did it. Yon bomb must have fractured a main.’ She closed her eyes and prayed for Lois. Lois was a big woman, but she wasn’t strong. Fat people were sometimes made weak by the weight they carried.

Dorothy trembled, but she controlled the tremors as best she could. A woman for whom she entertained no love was pulling fragments of glass from her head, was applying something that made her skin sting, but she refused to flinch. She wanted to run back down Derby Street to search through the rubble for something – anything – that had belonged to Steve. Her hand strayed to the pocket in her skirt, fingers closing round the silver locket. Like a disobedient child, she felt a thrill of joy. She had him here with her – a photograph and a curl of his hair were in her presence.

‘That should do it.’ Molly Cornwell stepped away. ‘You were lucky – one of them pieces could have gone right through to your brain.’

I have no brain. You wouldn’t let me sit for my grammar school scholarship, would you? It wouldn’t have done me any good, you said. I couldn’t have coped, you said. I was better off at Sts Peter and Paul Seniors, you said.

‘I’ll get that kettle on.’ Molly put away the first aid kit, then went into the kitchen.

‘Are you all right?’ mumbled Elsie. There was something about Molly Cornwell that forced even the garrulous Elsie Shipton into temporary near-silence. The woman was beyond cold – she was an iceberg, and Dorothy seemed as doomed as the Titanic had been. The girl was actually frightened about being here, in her own mother’s house.

Dorothy nodded.

‘I’m worried about Lois.’

‘Yes.’

Elsie’s head began to move slightly. ‘Nice house they’ve got here.’

‘Yes.’

Elsie wanted more than a yes. ‘Have they got a real bath upstairs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, you had plenty to say when you were trying to shift me up yon road. Are you going back to how you were? Because if you are, you’ll have to be how you were somewhere else. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve no homes. I shudder to think what my Pete will go through at the end of his shift. He’ll think I’m dead. And Lois could be, poor soul. I didn’t like the look of her at all, Dorothy. She could get pneumonia with that bad chest of hers.’

Molly appeared with tray and cups. ‘Our Dorothy’ll be stopping here with us. This is where she should be. From what I’ve heard, she wants looking after.’

Elsie’s head stepped up a pace. ‘She has been very well looked after, Mrs … er …’ The name slipped Elsie’s mind for a moment.

‘Cornwell.’

‘Mrs Cornwell. Me and Lois Melia have been keeping an eye on her. She’s been a bit quiet since her husband died and since she lost the baby, but she’s been seen to. Nobody gets neglected in my street.’

Molly Cornwell sniffed. Living just nine streets away from her daughter, she had heard about the two tragedies, but had stayed away. All along, she had known that Dorothy would need her sooner or later. Well, here she was. ‘She belongs with her own.’

There was something unsavoury about Molly Cornwell, a glint of triumph in her eye, as if she had just won a battle of some kind. Dorothy Dyson wasn’t one for chatting about her past, though she had said a word or two about her parents, about Molly’s being the power and about Tom Cornwell’s not having the guts to stand up to his wife. ‘She’s twenty-six,’ Elsie said. ‘She’s used to having her own place.’

‘That’s as may be.’ Molly Cornwell took a sip of tea. ‘But she’s always been bad with her nerves, has our Dorothy. She were never one for playing out – used to sit reading all the while and writing in her precious diaries. Lived in fairy tales, did our Dorothy.’

Because I had to. Because you told me I was good for nothing else. And worse. Oh, yes, you did a grand job of raising me, you old witch.

Elsie sat back, her cup trembling in its saucer. She had decided that she didn’t like Molly Cornwell one bit and that a single night here would be more than sufficient. She glanced at Dorothy. ‘We were happy enough in our little street, weren’t we?’ Elsie wasn’t going to give this female grim reaper the satisfaction of knowing just how miserable her daughter had been. ‘We minded each other,’ she added, her eyes challenging the householder. ‘It’s a case of loving thy neighbour, isn’t it?’

Molly passed round a plate of home-made biscuits. When Dorothy made no attempt to take one, she tutted loudly. ‘Keep your strength up. I know you’ve missed my baking.’ She looked at Elsie. ‘Although I say it as shouldn’t, I’m a very good cook.’

Yes, and you should have a cauldron and a couple of mates to help you stir the spells. I remember your little black book and your herbs. Dorothy unfolded herself from the cramped position into which she had curled. Very slowly, she rose to her feet and turned to her Nemesis. This creature birthed me. Steve made me promise I wouldn’t come back to this house if anything happened to him. It happened. The dead baby happened. The bomb happened. I am here.

Molly raised an eyebrow. ‘Your bedroom’s still as it was, except there’s a second bed in it. Your friend can have that.’

‘Pete will think I’m dead,’ said Elsie for the second time. ‘I don’t know where he is, so I’ve no way of letting him know I’m all right.’

‘If a warden saw you walk away, your husband will be told.’ Molly placed the biscuits on their tray. Dorothy continued to stare at her. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What’s up with you now?’

‘There is nothing up with me. There never was anything up with me. Thank you for taking us in, but we’ll make our own arrangements as soon as possible. We won’t be staying here.’

Elsie watched the two women, her jaw ceasing to chew while tension mounted in the overheated room. The fire burned fiercely and the atmosphere was making a steady approach towards nastiness. There was more to this than met the eye – a lot more.

‘Why?’ Molly asked. ‘There’s trouble enough with bombed-out folk needing places to stay. You’ve got somewhere – you’ve got here.’

‘Have I?’

‘Of course. Now, don’t talk daft. Just get yourself upstairs and have some sleep. You know what you’re like if you go a night without sleep.’

Dorothy’s head shook slowly. ‘I have gone many nights without sleep. There was no one to strap me into my bed, you see. No one to complain when the bed was wet – wet because I couldn’t get out of it. I have lost the best man in the world.’ And she was talking to the worst woman she had ever known. ‘Now, listen to me. I am here because of Elsie. Elsie is sixty-two years of age and it’s cold outside. I would have slept in an ashpit if I’d been on my own. Elsie is my good friend and neighbour – I am here for her sake and only for her sake.’

Elsie Shipton swallowed the last mouthful of tea with an audible gulp. She hadn’t heard a speech of such length from Dorothy Dyson since … since for ever. Determined to concentrate without being obvious, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

‘You’ve no gratitude,’ snapped Molly.

Dorothy offered no response.

‘Years we slaved for you. Your dad near broke his back in the pits – that’s where he is now – half a mile underground, slaving like a workhorse. They’re having to work extra shifts with the war.’ She patted her hair in a self-satisfied fashion.

‘Because you want to be a cut above, he had to be a cut underneath,’ came the quiet reply. ‘He does as he’s told. He always did as he was told. If he’d been half the man Steve was, he would have stood up to you.’

‘I only wanted things nice for you—’

‘Rubbish. You wanted a back boiler, electricity and a plumbed-in bath. You wanted new wardrobes and a Hoover and a sewing machine.’ Dorothy turned and tugged Elsie’s sleeve. ‘Come on. Don’t be falling asleep in here.’ She led her companion out of the room and up the stairs.

The voice followed them, though its owner remained at the foot of the staircase. ‘You don’t know what I went through, having you. Then you were delicate and had me worried out of my mind. You are the most ungrateful daughter on earth.’

In the bedroom, Elsie asked, ‘What’s the matter, love?’

Dorothy smiled sadly. ‘Don’t ask. Just go to sleep.’ She lay down and stared at the familiar ceiling. Mam was still shouting in the hall, but the words were no longer decipherable.

Elsie began to snore. Dorothy continued to listen for her mother, but the grumbling died and peace was restored. Though Elsie’s snoring was hardly peaceful, Dorothy mused. When she was sure that the older woman slept, she got off the bed and began to go through drawers and wardrobe. Fashions had changed, but her size had not, and since she had left home with scarcely a rag to her back, most of her old clothes were still here.

She found her dad’s Great War kitbag and some pillowcases and stuffed clothes and shoes inside, moving slowly and noiselessly so as not to disturb Elsie or alert Mam. It had always been like this – secrets, retribution, anger. Softly, she moved to one end of the wardrobe and pulled up a loose floorboard. The diaries were still there. She pulled them out and placed them with the rest of her things. She had everything now. Her life, her sufferings, her thoughts and fears, had all been written into cheap exercise books. I have found me. I can’t find Steve and there’ll never be another like him, but I have myself. All of me.

There was no way that she could stay here. When her rudimentary luggage was hidden under her bed, she finally lay down. Mam would come in and look at her, as would Dad once his shift allowed him home. So she turned her face to the wall and covered her head with the sheet. She didn’t want them staring at her, making plans for her, interfering in her life.

‘You have no life,’ she told herself softly. There had to be a place for her somewhere. Steve would not have wanted her to be like this, almost unconscious for much of the time, a non-participant, a waste of space and of oxygen. ‘Make a life,’ she commanded herself.

Where could she go? What was that bit she had seen in the paper, about that place where mothers and babies would be staying in the relative safety of the countryside? Bromley Cross, that was it. There was a big house – what was its name? She could get herself Red Cross trained and do some good for a change. Her eyelids became heavy and she drifted between sleep and wakefulness. It would be all right.

Tomorrow, she would be out of here.

* * *

By 1919, Dorothy Cornwell had become used to having a father. Born soon after the beginning of the Great War, she had known only a mother, and the arrival in her life of a father had been odd, but by the time she started school Dad had become a part of the household. He was a quiet man and he went out to work, so life continued much as it had before, except for Gran. Gran had looked after Dorothy while Mam had been employed in the mill during the war, but Gran was no longer needed, because Molly Cornwell had given up her place in the spinning room.

There had been an argument of some kind, doors had slammed, Mam had been angrier than normal for a day or two, then things had settled down. ‘Where’s Gran?’ Dorothy had asked one day. She had been told to mind her own business and, after that, she had never asked again. But she remembered the quarrel, those two female voices raised, then the silence after Gran had gone away.

There was no point in asking Mam for explanations. As her fifth birthday drew near, Dorothy, who had spent most of her short time on earth in the company of adults, looked forward to school. She was unsure of the nature of school, but she knew that other children in the area went there every day. She would stand at the window and watch them playing in the street after tea, at weekends and during school holidays, her feet itching for hopscotch and skipping games, but she was not allowed out. Dorothy was a delicate child. Almost every week, she was taken by Mam to see the doctor, and one kitchen cupboard was filled with lotions and potions for Dorothy’s various ailments.

Sunning Hill school was on Derby Street, just at the bottom of View Street. It was big, with an ornate Victorian frontage and tall railings to keep the children safe from traffic. The yard nearest to the road was for older children; those under the age of eleven played in a flagged area at the back of the school. Dorothy, both scared and excited, was taken to town for new clothes. She had gymslips with two buttons on each shoulder, white blouses, grey cardigans and black leather boots. ‘Can’t I have clogs?’ she begged. Everybody wore clogs for school – only the better off had shoes for Sundays and special occasions.

But Molly Cornwell did not approve of clogs. Clogs were for common people and Molly Cornwell was a cut above. ‘No,’ she said, ‘and just be grateful for boots. Them that have to wear clogs are poor. We aren’t poor.’ Molly’s great-aunt had left her some money, so she and Tom were buying their house. Folk who owned houses did not wear clogs. ‘You’re not clattering about in those heavy things – they’d be too much for your legs.’

Even before she started at school, Dorothy knew that she was going to be different. She had never used a skipping rope, had not played throw-and-catch with a ball, was not familiar with the rules of games. The tying of laces had been mastered, and she could dress herself without help, but leapfrog and ring-a-ring-a-roses had never come up on Mam’s agenda. All the other children would know how to play, but Dorothy would have to start her school life with a completely blank sheet.

A few days before the great day arrived, Molly bought new pencils, crayons and a reading book. Although unhappy about allowing her offspring into the world, she was determined that the delicate child would be – like herself – a slice above the common herd. ‘Sit,’ she ordered.

Dorothy sat at the table.

‘I showed you how to write your name, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘Right – do it.’

Dorothy wrote her name. She wrote it ten times before Molly was satisfied with the result. Then, when offered the reading book, the child read it aloud from cover to cover, with no hesitation.

Molly frowned. ‘Who’s been teaching you?’

‘Gran showed me. We used to read when you were at the mill.’ They had gone to the park, too, but Gran had made Dorothy promise to say nothing about those outings. There had been ducks and swans, trees, flowers and miles of grass. Once, there had been a band, men in a little circular building with no walls, just a roof held up by poles. The men had worn red uniforms with gold braid and one at the front with a short stick had been in charge. He waved it so hard that he nearly fell off his tiny podium a couple of times. Trumpets and drums had played and the music had been magical.

‘Children are rough,’ Molly said, ‘especially the boys. They have irons on their clogs and you have to stay away from them. I’ve seen legs near flayed after a kicking.’

Dorothy swallowed hard. Why would anyone kick her?

‘And you tell nobody about anything in this house – do you understand?’

Dorothy nodded.

‘They don’t need to know about me having to fasten you into bed, do they? We don’t want all the world asking questions about your nerves. Sleepwalking’s not something to be talked about. And other things – keep your mouth shut. I want nobody knowing my business.’

Other things? Which other things? Because Dorothy had sparse experience of the world outside, she owned no yardstick against which behaviours might be measured, compared and categorized. Her whole existence had been encapsulated here, at number 33, View Street, a house from which she could see the Town Hall clock down below and, across town, the moors rising in the distance. She knew shops, of course, because she went for groceries with Mam and had to stand still and talk to no one.

‘You say nothing about me, right?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘What goes on here is nobody’s affair but mine. I have spies, you know. If I find out you’ve said anything, you’ll be for it, young lady.’

The young lady in question was enrolled in the first class at Sunning Hill in September, 1919. She was given a peg on which to hang her coat and the sign above her peg was a little yellow daisy. The girl next to her had a red rose picture and a shaved head, so Mam was up in arms right away. ‘Don’t you sit next to her,’ she said, ‘or you’ll be catching that filth. Sending a child to school in that state – they should be ashamed.’

No other mothers had come into school, so Dorothy was already different. The clatter of wooden-soled clogs on the stairs had been the first warning, and Mam’s presence was the second. Now, she was being marched into the classroom by a very angry Molly Cornwell.

The teacher sat at a high desk. Behind her was a large blackboard and, leaning in the corner, two canes advertised the very business Mam had spoken about – difficult children were always punished. Dorothy was already difficult, but that wasn’t her fault. Mam was making the difficulties.

‘Yes?’ The teacher had a stern face and grey hair pulled tight into a bun. Her clothes were all black and she looked older than Gran.

Mam spoke quietly. ‘This is my daughter, Dorothy Cornwell. She’s fragile. Will you make sure she sits next to nobody dirty, please? I saw one girl with ringworm in that cloakroom. I don’t want Dorothy coming home with some filthy disease.’

The teacher frowned, and frowning seemed to be a strenuous business, because her forehead was made taut by the severe hairstyle. ‘The child in question will be wearing a bonnet,’ she replied. If ringworm was to be an issue, what would this woman do when scarlet fever broke out?

Molly wasn’t satisfied. ‘And I don’t want her going out at playtimes. She suffers with her chest – and with her nerves. If she plays out, she’ll only get poorly again and she won’t be able to come to school.’

Beryl Isherwood had been teaching children from the Daubhill end of Bolton for over thirty years. Experience allowed her insight into the characters of children and of their parents. Straight away, she recognized the type. This was a controller, a would-be monarch of all she surveyed. ‘Dorothy will grow stronger, Mrs Cornwell. They all have their little coughs and colds for the first few months.’

‘It’s not a matter of little coughs and colds,’ replied the indignant mother. ‘She gets the bronchials. We’re always on the lookout for pneumonia.’

Dorothy realized that every child in the room was listening to the exchange. She wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go. If only the floor would open up and swallow her …

‘Mrs Cornwell.’ Patience was etched deeply into the name. ‘Children are supervised at all times. When they go into the playground, a teacher is in charge. Other teachers go for a cup of tea and a rest, then we return to our classrooms. Who will look after Dorothy when she stays in here? Would you have another member of staff go without a rest period in order to mind one child?’

Molly shifted her weight from foot to foot. She could find no answer except the one she offered now. ‘I can come and look after her while the others are out playing,’ she said.

Dorothy wanted to die. She was five years old, big enough for school, but Mam was turning her into a baby and a whole class was listening. No other mothers were offering to come to school to mind a child, were they?

Miss Isherwood stuck to her guns. ‘Collect her at lunchtime and take her home until the afternoon session begins. At playtime, she will mix with the other children. I cannot make provision for her. If she is too frail for normal school, perhaps you should go to town and ask for a place at the open air school – that’s where weaker children will be going once the school is passed into the hands of the corporation.’

The Industrial School? Molly bridled. No child of hers would ever go to one of those places. Even if the name did get changed from Industrial to Open Air, it would still be a place for inferior, poorer and often neglected children. ‘Dorothy’s not going there,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not having her pointed at in the street.’

The teacher opened the lid of her desk and withdrew the register. ‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Cornwell, I have a class to run. Dorothy – sit there.’ She pointed to an empty seat.

‘She’s not sitting with a boy,’ cried Molly.

Dorothy walked away from her mother and sat next to the boy. She feared the wrath of her mother, but the ridicule she might receive from her peers was equally terrifying. It did not occur to her for one moment that all the other new children were as afraid as she was; that they, too, had no idea of what to expect on their first day at school.

Molly glared at her daughter and left the classroom in a hurry.

Miss Isherwood called the register, instructing the children to reply ‘Yes, Miss,’ when their names were spoken. Dorothy kept her head down. She dared not look at her classmates, because she was not one of them. Mam had made her stick out like a sore thumb and she was covered in shame.

But all that was forgotten when Miss Isherwood announced her intention to give the children a first day treat. ‘Story time is usually at the end of the day, but, since you are brand new, I shall begin with a nice story. You have all been very good and very brave, so you deserve something special. This is your reward.’

Dorothy was enchanted. The teacher did different voices for each character, bringing to life a tale of a prince, a princess and an enchanted forest that grew and grew until it had twisted its way all round the palace in which the princess lived. Like the trumpets in the park and the swans on the water, this was magic. The princess had to wake up, because she had been asleep for many years. She didn’t walk in her sleep, so she didn’t need strapping in. The prince hacked his way through the forest and kissed the princess and everyone lived happily ever after.

When Miss Isherwood told of an ugly godmother who had placed a curse on the young royal, Dorothy saw her own mother. Mam wasn’t really there, yet she was in Dorothy’s head and she put poison on the needle. But, in the end, everything turned out well, because the prince found a way through all the twisted trees. It was wonderful. Dorothy wanted to keep the book that held the stories, but it belonged to the school.

After the story, everyone was given a reading book. ‘Can anyone read a few of those words?’ asked Beryl Isherwood.

Dorothy could read all of them, but she didn’t like to say. She was already the odd one out and there was no point in making matters any worse. All she wanted was to blend in, to be part of the class, to be ordinary. If reading would make her stand out, she would be better not to bother.

Playtime arrived. Children lined up to get coats and make for the playground. Outside, they stood in clusters and watched the old hands taking their leisure – cowboys and Indians, marbles, tig, and general rough and tumble.

Dorothy was mesmerized. She saw no kicking, no fighting, no bad behaviour at all. She also saw her mother at the other side of the railings and the rate of her heartbeat increased. Again, there were no other mothers. Mam was waving and shouting, though the sound of her voice was muffled by playground noise.

With her shoulders rounded in shame, Dorothy went off into the girls’ toilets. She closed the door and sat down. If Mam could have seen her, she would have gone mad, because children who were fragile could never sit on a public toilet. The little girl remained there until the bell rang, then she joined her class, eyes averted from the figure on Goldsmith Street. She was not going to be different. No matter how long it took, Dorothy Cornwell would be one of the crowd.

They did sums and Dorothy got them all right. It was easy stuff, but some of the other children had no idea about counting and taking away. The boy next to her, Alan Partington, copied everything from Dorothy’s slate, so he, also, got ten out of ten.

A bell rang. Once again, coats were collected and children went off home to eat their midday meal. Dorothy had trouble keeping up with Mam, because Mam was in a particularly black mood. She was muttering under her breath about teachers who thought they knew everything even though they had never married and had children.

A dish was slammed down on the table in front of the child and she was ordered to eat its contents. She didn’t like tripe or onions and was always sick if forced to have them, but she knew better than to attempt refusal. After two mouthfuls, she vomited into the kitchen sink and was ordered up to her bedroom.

‘But we’re having painting this afternoon,’ she cried. She felt perfectly well now that the tripe and onions were no longer resident in her stomach. ‘Painting and drawing.’

‘You’re not going. You’ve been sick and you’ll stop at home.’

It wasn’t fair. Dorothy hovered for a moment in an insane place where running out through the front door seemed to be an option, but that was mere imagination. Molly Cornwell had spoken and Molly Cornwell’s word was law. There was no real choice. Dorothy climbed the stairs, entered her bedroom and closed the door.

She didn’t weep. Her grief was too deep to be accessible and she was tired. It occurred to her that she had spoken only to Alan Partington on her first day at school, that she had helped him with his sums and that apart from him she had met no one.

It was a long day. At four o’clock, she stood at the window and watched children passing on their way home. They laughed and shouted, pulling and pushing each other. Two boys kicked a can and a few girls skipped along with ropes. Dorothy’s eyes were wet as she observed the antics of her peers. She was different; she would probably be different for the rest of her life. Worst of all, there was nothing she could do about it.

TWO

ELSIE SHIPTON OPENED her eyes and tried to work out where she was. There was no Pete, the bed was too soft and the blankets felt wrong. A sore throat shocked her into recalling yesterday’s events and she heaved herself up, discovering that she was fully dressed, though her shoes were missing – ah, there they were, on the floor. She had no home. She didn’t know where her husband was and Dorothy Dyson had disappeared. The other bed was so neatly made that it appeared virginal. ‘Dorothy?’ she stage-whispered in the direction of the door. ‘You there, Dorothy?’ There was that peculiar woman downstairs and Elsie didn’t like the thought of her getting hold of Dorothy. Where the heck had the girl gone?

When her shoes were in their rightful place, Elsie opened the curtains, was shocked to see that the window owned exterior bars. Hadn’t all metals been commandeered? Railings from Noble Street had gone to be made into munitions, leaving steep and dangerous steps up to the front doors of houses built above cellars. Perhaps the government had decided not to bother with these few pieces of iron on a first floor rear window, though it didn’t seem fair, not when Noble Street kiddies were always falling down and banging their heads, just for the want of a handrail. She could commit murder for a cup of tea, she felt sure. Her throat felt as if someone had given it a thorough going-over with coarse sandpaper.

‘Bloody corset,’ she grumbled, wishing she’d found the strength to remove the item before getting into bed. It was bad enough having to wear whalebone during the day, but twenty-four hours at a stretch was a bit much. It was a stretch, too, strong elastic with panels stiffened to the point of agony. She tugged and pulled at her undergarments until the bone-ends found new areas of flesh to trap, then she walked back to the window. Why had this room been made into a cage? Were the bars there to keep people out, or to keep someone in? Were any other windows in the house barred? She shivered. Or had Dorothy been shut in like an animal? Surely not?

‘Good morning.’

Elsie jumped. ‘Good God, you nearly had me out of my skin. Where’s Dorothy?’ She took the proffered cup of tea from a hostess whose facial expression fell rather short of welcoming. Tea – thank goodness for it. After two scalding swallows, her throat felt better.

‘She’s downstairs.’ Molly Cornwell sniffed, folded her arms and stared at the visitor. ‘I’ve sent Tom down to the wardens’ office to tell them you’re safe. They’ll find a way to let your husband know, save him worrying about you getting blown up with the rest.’

‘Thank you.’ Elsie took another gulp of tea, was grateful when the hot liquid cleared her vocal cords to the point where words emerged painlessly. ‘It’s my neighbour I’m really worried about, Mrs Cornwell. Big woman, bad chest and not built for speed, you see. She were on fire, you know. We got out just in time, or we’d have gone up with the gas. Doesn’t bear thinking about. God, I hope Lois is all right.’

Molly closed the curtains. ‘Nosy neighbours,’ she explained. ‘No idea of how to mind their own business, some people.’

Elsie, who felt fairly sure that the woman had wanted to hide the bars, said nothing. Her spine tingled slightly, and the feeling could not be blamed on the corset alone. No, this mother of Dorothy’s was a queer fish, all right. It was clear that she had been pretty in her youth: good bones, decent skin, a shine on the hair. She was still the sort of stunner who could probably attract men. Looked at properly, she was the spitting image of her own daughter. Yet she was ugly and the ugliness came from the cold, expressionless eyes. There seemed to be no joy in her, and this was not a recent sadness, Elsie felt sure of that. The woman was a professional misery, with nothing good to say about anyone.

‘So, what will you do?’ Molly was asking now. ‘So many people made homeless – it’s tragic.’ The voice remained unemotional.

Elsie’s head began to nod. ‘Well, I’ve a sister married to a farm labourer, but they’re a long way out, and since my Pete’s in charge of delivering medical supplies we might need to stop down near town. I don’t know, I’m sure. Pete will have to work something out, because I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to start looking.’