The Cornish Girls. Betty Walker

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      Violet waited until she was nearly at the door to Number 27, then whirled, hands on hips, and glared into the shadows. She was tall for a woman, with a trim figure, and knew her height could sometimes be intimidating, so deliberately drew herself up and pushed her shoulders back.

      ‘Right, who’s there?’ she demanded, putting on the no-nonsense voice she used with Betsy’s two daughters, though they honestly didn’t need to be kept in line. Poor girls, they’d just lost their mum and could hardly lift their heads for weeping. And she’d lost a much-loved sister. ‘Come out and show yourself!’

      To her surprise, it wasn’t one of the unruly youths from the neighbouring streets, come to taunt her again, but Fred who stepped out of the shadows.

      ‘Fred?’ She couldn’t hide the astonishment in her voice. ‘What are you doing, for goodness’ sake?’ She shook her head, her heartbeat slowing as she realised it had been no foe, but a friend following her. ‘Bloody hell, you gave me such a start!’

      ‘I’m s-sorry, Miss Hopkins,’ Fred stammered, removing his cap and turning it nervously between his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten yer.’

      ‘I told you, I don’t need anyone to see me home from work.’

      ‘But after last time—’

      ‘I can handle meself just fine,’ Violet said stoutly, though in truth she had been deeply upset by her last encounter with their less pleasant neighbours, a small group of troublemakers who called themselves the Dagenham Daggers. ‘You’d best head off home now. I’m nearly at my front door, anyway.’

      ‘If you’re sure …’

      In the far distance, there was the ominous drone of aircraft engines. They both glanced up at the darkening sky, knowing what that meant. Some poor soul was going to get it tonight, and you just had to hope it wasn’t you. A shudder of fear ran through her.

      ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said briskly. ‘You shouldn’t be out this late, Fred. There’ll be another air raid tonight, like as not.’

      ‘Goodnight, then.’ Fred turned away, shoulders slumped.

      But before he had taken more than three steps, a jagged stone came flying out of nowhere and hit Violet on the ankle.

      ‘Bleedin’ hell!’ she cried out, hobbling towards her front door as she fumbled in her purse for her latchkey.

      Fred turned at once, staring at the shadowy street corner opposite. ‘Who’s out there? Who did that?’ His voice was suddenly strong and angry, and Violet could not help feeling grateful that he was still there. ‘You cowards! Throwing stones at a woman?’

      ‘She deserves it – she’s one of them,’ came the hoarse reply, and now she could see a grimy face in the shadows. Two or three grimy faces, she realised. Boys, not much older than her late sister’s girls. Bareheaded street lads in filthy clothes. ‘Gotta kick her out the street, see? Or she’ll have the lot of us.’

      ‘One of who? What are you talking about?’

      The face came into sharper focus, a narrow chin with an even narrower body below it, but wiry, like a whippet’s.

      Patrick Dullaghan, self-appointed leader of the Dagenham Daggers.

      ‘One of the Hun,’ he said darkly, and stooped to pick up another stone from the street, weighing it in his hand. Two of the houses further down the street had taken a hit a few weeks before, and the road was still littered with debris. ‘Hey, Fred, ain’t you heard what folk are saying about Violet Hopkins? Her brother-in-law’s one of the enemy. A bleedin’ German.’

      ‘What rubbish!’ Fred clapped his hands loudly, walking towards the lads. ‘Don’t talk such rot.’ He was speaking loudly enough to make Violet nervous. She peered up and down the dark street for any sign of the air-raid wardens who often patrolled the streets, but there was nobody about. ‘Off you go home, the lot of you. Before I report you to the police for assaulting a lady.’

      The boys behind Patrick Dullaghan melted back into the shadows at that threat, but their leader hesitated. He threw the stone in a half-hearted fashion, missing her completely, before disappearing down the road while Fred glowered after him.

      Shakily, Violet turned and struggled to fit her latchkey into the lock, groping about in the dark. Night had fallen while they were dealing with those nasty bullies. In the distance, she could once again hear the drone of engines high over London, but wasn’t sure if they were enemy planes or their own boys.

      ‘Ta, Fred.’

      ‘Goodnight, Miss.’

      Violet nodded and slipped inside, closing the door on him. But not before she’d seen the look on his face and known he’d been hoping for more than a ‘Thank you’.

      And something else, perhaps. The hint of suspicion.

      Fred must have heard the rumours, though he had never mentioned them. But it looked as if he too was wondering …

      In times like these, it only took a few whispers and most people would instantly assume guilt. No need for evidence, or a judge and jury. Not when the enemy was killing people in their beds every night.

      She removed her coat and hung it up in the dark hallway, closing her eyes briefly as she remembered the vicious look on Patrick Dullaghan’s face, the sting of his words.

       Gotta kick her out the street.

      And what for?

      Because her brother-in-law, a man who had bravely enlisted on the English side within days of the outbreak of war, was half-German.

      He was also missing in action, presumed dead.

      Not that any of that had stopped the whispers flying around Dagenham. Oh no, it had made him seem even more guilty. Not honourably dead. But missing.

      Hurriedly checking her reflection in the hall mirror, Violet found she looked awfully pale, while her shoulder-length fair hair, swept off her face for work and set in a soft roll, seemed a little untidy. She patted her hair back into place and pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back.

      ‘Violet? That you?’

      She pushed into the sitting room to find her mother in the armchair, a woollen blanket over her knees, knitting patiently as she listened to the wireless.

      ‘Who else would it be, Mum?’ Violet whisked the tea cosy off the china pot on the table. The teapot was cool. ‘Shall I make some fresh, or top it up?’

      ‘Top it up, Vi, love.’ Sheila clacked her knitting needles, her attention still half on the wireless, where a man with a plummy accent was droning on about the war effort. ‘We’re nearly out of tea leaves.’ Then she stopped and frowned. ‘You’re late back. Any trouble at the caff?’

      ‘No, all locked up for the night.’

      ‘Were you dawdling again?’

      ‘I had to do a stock-take. Time got away from me.’

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