Rosie’s War

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Kay Brellend (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#u6ea850f4-5fc7-5a18-b4a9-14062a3abf77)

Doctor’s Surgery, Shoreditch, October 1941

‘My mum died young so I’m a bit worried … in case I’ve got the same disease.’ The young woman sat down on the edge of the hard-backed chair. ‘Mum was only thirty-three when she passed away.’

‘You look a lot younger than that and as fit as a fiddle, my dear.’ The doctor raised his wiry grey eyebrows, peering over his spectacles at the exceptionally pretty young woman settling a handbag on her lap. Her platinum hair was in crisp waves and her sea-blue eyes were bright with nervousness. She was nicely dressed and he guessed she had a good job keeping her in such style. He was more used to seeing women with careworn faces, and toddlers on their scruffy skirts, perching nervously at the other side of his desk.

Rosie Gardiner wasn’t sure whether Dr Vernon’s casual dismissal of her concerns had cheered her or left her feeling more anxious. She’d not yet turned twenty and had a healthy glow from a brisk walk on a blustery autumn day. Or the flush could be a fever. In Rosie’s opinion the least he could do was stick a thermometer in her mouth to check her temperature instead of just sitting there tapping his pen on a blotter. Feeling exasperated by his silence she added, ‘It’s hard dragging myself out of bed some mornings. Then I spend an hour bending over the privy out back being sick. It’s not like me to feel too rough to go to work ’cos I like my job at the Windmill Theatre.’

‘Mmm …’ Dr Vernon cast a glance at the young woman’s bare fingers. In wartime women sometimes pawned their jewellery to buy essentials. An absence of an engagement ring didn’t necessarily mean that the lass hadn’t given her fiancé a passionate send-off to the front line, getting herself into trouble in the process.

‘Putting on weight?’ Dr Vernon asked.

‘Not really … no appetite … so I don’t eat much.’

‘Monthlies on time?’

Rosie blushed, wondering why he was asking personal questions like that when she was frantically worried she had the cancer that had put her mother in an early grave. Prudence Gardiner had seemed to be recovering from an operation to remove a tumour but then pleurisy had finished her off. But Rosie had only spotted a little bit of blood instead of proper monthlies.

‘You look to be blooming, my dear … might you be pregnant?’

‘No … I might not!’ Rosie spluttered. ‘I’m not married or even got a sweetheart. I’ve never even wanted to …’

‘Right … I’d better examine you then if there have been no intimate relations to cause trouble.’ Dr Vernon got up from his chair, gesturing for Rosie to stand also. ‘Abdominal fullness, you say, with sickness …’ The muttered comment emerged as he got into position to prod at her with his fingers.

Rosie stayed in her chair, the colour in her complexion fading away. Intimate relations … The phrase hammered in her head and she felt stupid for not having made the connection herself about why her body seemed horribly different. But there had been nothing intimate about that one brutal encounter with a man she’d despised.Rosie’s mind wanted to flinch from the memory but she forced herself to concentrate on the man who’d attacked her all those months ago. Lenny and his father had been her dad’s associates. They’d worked together churning out bottles of rotgut, much to Rosie’s disgust. But what had disgusted her even more was Lenny’s attention. She’d made it plain she’d no intention of going out with him but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’d attended the same school, their fathers were friends and Lenny thought that gave him the right to pester her for dates and then call her names when she turned him down. Rosie had hated her father getting involved in crime and had nagged him to break up his illegal booze racket but she hadn’t let on that his association with Lenny was a prime reason for her wanting him to go straight. At that time, she’d been a proud independent woman: a Windmill Girl, and Windmill Girls were able to look after themselves, whether fending off catty theatre colleagues, or randy servicemen lying in wait at the stage door. With youthful arrogance she’d believed she could deal with Lenny herself.

Then one night Rosie had met him by chance in the East End when she was feeling a bit the worse for wear. She’d discovered in just a few vicious minutes that she wasn’t as sassy as she’d thought; she certainly hadn’t been as strong as Lenny, though she’d fought like a maniac to try and stop him.

‘Ah …’ Dr Vernon had seen her stricken look and turned back towards his desk. ‘You’ve remembered an incident, have you, and think there might be reason to count the months after all?’

‘Yes …’ she whispered. ‘But I’m praying you’re wrong, Doctor.’

He smiled kindly. ‘I understand. But better to incubate a life than an illness, my dear.’

Rosie thought about that one. The odd weight she’d sensed in her belly was not a nasty growth in the way she’d thought; but it could destroy her life. ‘If you’re right – and I pray to God you’re not – I think I’d sooner be dead than have his baby,’ she whispered.

CHAPTER ONE (#u6ea850f4-5fc7-5a18-b4a9-14062a3abf77)

February 1942

‘Well done, dear … good girl … just one more big push. Come on, you can do it …’

Rosie knew that the midwife was being kind and helpful but she just wanted to bawl at her to go away and leave her alone. She had no energy left to whisper a word let alone shout a torrent of abuse. She didn’t want to push, she didn’t want the horrible creature fighting for life in her hips but she knew the agony wouldn’t stop unless she did something … She raised her forehead from the sweat-soaked pillow, dragging her shoulders off the rubber sheeting to grip Nurse Johnson’s outstretched hands. Rosie clung on to the two sturdy palms as tightly as she might have to a piece of driftwood in a raging sea, and gritting her teeth she bore down.

‘What’re you planning on calling her?’

The whispered question emerged tentatively as though the man anticipated a tongue-lashing. And he got it.

‘Calling her?’ Rosie dredged up a weak laugh from her aching abdomen. ‘How about bastard … that should suit. Now go away and leave me alone.’ Rosie turned her pale face to the wall and groaned, drawing up her knees beneath a thin blood-streaked sheet.

The fellow hesitated, then tiptoed about the bed. He knew the poor cow had been driven mad with pain because he’d heard her shrieking even above the din of the wireless. When things had quietened down overhead he’d guessed the worst was over. Then he’d spied the dragon barging down the hall, uniform crackling. As soon as she had disappeared into the front room with a bucket of stuff to burn he’d crept upstairs while the coast was clear.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Trudy Johnson burst into the back bedroom and glared at the intruder; childbirth was nothing to do with men, in her opinion. They might put the bun in the oven but should stay well out of the way at the business end of things. The midwife had been disposing of soiled wadding in the parlour fire while waiting for her patient to enter the final stage of labour. But she’d heard voices and speeded up the stairs to see what was going on.

‘I’ve every right to be here.’ John Gardiner sounded huffy. ‘She’s me daughter and that there’s me granddaughter.’ He pointed at the swaddled bundle at the foot of the bed. The infant was emitting mewling squeaks while punching feet and fists into her straitjacket. He almost smiled. The poor little mite was unwanted but she was a fighter. John moved to pick up the newborn but the midwife advanced on him threateningly, fists on starched hips. He backed away, muttering, his hands plunged into his pockets.

‘I think your daughter deserves some privacy, Mr Gardiner. I’ll let you know when she’s ready for a visit.’

Chastened, John trudged meekly onto the landing, then peeped around the bedroom door. ‘Put the kettle on, shall I? Bet you’d like a cuppa, now it’s all over, wouldn’t you, dear?’ He addressed the remark to his exhausted daughter but gave Nurse Johnson a wink when she raised an eyebrow at him.