Coal Sacks for Curtains

Joni Powling

Description

On 3rdSeptember, 1939, Britain declared war on Germany. The award-winning Coal Sacks forCurtains places readers deep in the ruins and rubble of London during those war-torn years, when German planes pounded the capital night after night. This personal documented story, inspired by the author's real experiences, takes readers to a place no-one wants to go, but from where there is no escape. Experience the trials and tribulations of protagonist Josie growing up in those devastating years. Feel her terror as she first faces death at twelve years of age.Live her tender moments and powerful emotions of first love when she meets Michael, a young RAFair gunner who, at the age of 18, is destined to be 'one of the few'. Told with vivid recollection, this story is powerful, heart-wrenching, romantic and inspirational. Live every moment of Josie's journey. Can she survive unscathed? Coal Sacks forCurtains is an evocative, gripping story that will appeal to fans of World War 2 fiction and romance novels. Joni Powling's writing has been compared to that of Catherine Cookson. It won the 2011 Free Read Scheme, a competition funded by the Arts Council ofLondon that finds the most talented up and coming authors in the area.

Sujets

• Historical romance
• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 14 janvier 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783066902
• Langue: English

Extrait

COAL SACKS FOR CURTAINS
JONI POWLING

Copyright © 2014 Joni Powling
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador ®
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ISBN 978 1783066 902
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

This book is dedicated to my sister Lily Morgan for her unfailing faith in me as an author. Also to my nephew Colin Morgan for his expert help.
*
Special thanks to my son Peter … you can be a hard task master, but you supplied the discipline that I required to finally get Coal Sacks for Curtains out there.
*
Last, but not least, my good friend Lesley McEwan, of North Carolina … those 2-hour transatlantic calls supported me when I was struggling to stay focused. Thanks, Lesley, it meant a lot to me.
Contents

Cover


Chapter 1


Chapter 2


Chapter 3


Chapter 4


Chapter 5


Chapter 6


Chapter 7


Chapter 8


Chapter 9


Chapter 10


Chapter 11
Chapter 1

3rd September 1939

A mournful wind blew over the marshes, sending puffs of billowy grey clouds scudding across the sky, while the tall trees that skirted the long, lonely road leading to the village of Higham swayed and danced in unison as the wind caught their willowy branches. Josie shivered as she stood gazing out of the window. Everything looked normal – she could see Mr Dawson’s sheep in the far meadow happily grazing. The occasional flash of white bobtails as rabbits hopped nervously about – but something was wrong – very wrong!
*
Her grandparents, Uncle Sid and Auntie Doll, and a few of the neighbours had been gathered around the radio in the front room for what seemed like hours. Suddenly the chimes of Big Ben signalling eleven o’clock echoed from the radio, and a man’s voice came over the airway, his voice trembling with emotion as he announced ‘THIS COUNTRY IS NOW AT WAR WITH GERMANY’.
Josie didn’t quite understand what was going on. For days everyone had been talking about the possibility of war! What was war? How would it affect her? She shrugged her slight shoulders and turned towards the old stone sink. One thing she knew for sure! There would always be washing up and, it always seemed to be her job! She heard her grandmother give a gasp of horror and disbelief as everyone started talking at once, then her uncle’s deep voice rising above the rest as if trying to gain some control of the situation.
‘Now it’s no good getting into a panic about it, that won’t do any good. Let’s all have a nice cup of tea; I’m sure we all need one, afterwards we’ll have a talk.’ There was silence for a moment or two then, as if an afterthought, he continued. ‘Where is Josie? She should be in here; it will affect her as much as anyone.’
Josie stood resolutely by the sink. What did her uncle want to talk to her for? Whoever wanted to listen to her anyway? No-one in the past had ever been interested in anything she said or did. Raising her hand she brushed a lock of brown, unruly hair out of her eyes and gave a deep sigh. How she hated washing up; the steaming bowl of hot soda water that her grandma insisted she use made her hands red and sore. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and she swung quickly around to find her uncle standing behind her. His face was pale and troubled.
‘Josie, leave that, lovey, and come into the front room. Did you hear the news? It’s a terrible day indeed … we are at war!’ He put a comforting arm around her and shook his head sadly.
She looked up at him and a slight frown crossed her face. ‘Yes, I heard, Uncle, but what does it mean – will we all get killed?’
He ran his fingers through his mop of brown, curly hair. ‘No, Josie, it’s not like that. Unless, of course, you are in the forces, that’s a different story then, but I don’t think you will need to worry too much about it. After all you are only twelve years old! It’ll be over long before it can have any effect on your life.’ He handed her a small towel which was hanging on the old wooden kitchen door. ‘Dry your hands now and then we’ll go into the front room; your grandma wants to talk to you.’
Josie dried her hands on the worn tea-towel, then, shivering slightly, followed him into the front room and sat on a small stool next to her grandmother.
She gazed solemnly around the room and for a moment her eyes focused on the fire that was burning in the grate. The yellow and red flames danced fiercely and noisily as if in anger. Even the aspidistra that once stood proudly in front of the window on grandma’s old sewing machine looked forlorn and dejected while Auntie Doll dabbed the corner of her eyes as she stared intently at the floor. Everyone looked so serious – the talking had died away and it seemed they were all engrossed in their own private thoughts.
Grandmother spoke first. ‘One thing is for sure,’ she remarked sadly, ‘Josie won’t be able to go back to London next week, it won’t be safe there. No! She had better stay here and go to the village school until the war is over.’
Josie stared into space as she fiddled with the edge of her apron, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought of her family – her mother, father, brother and sister – and what about Paddy her dog? What was it Gran said? London was not safe? Suppose they all got killed – she would never see them again! Unbidden tears trickled down her face as she turned to her grandmother.
‘But I want to go ’ome! I want to go ’ome! How long do wars last, Gran?’
Grandmother shook her head. ‘As long as it takes, Josie … just as long as it takes.’
Josie buried her face in her hands as a big sob shook her thin body.
She felt an arm being placed reassuringly around her shoulders.
‘Don’t cry, Josie – crying isn’t going to do any good is it? After all, the war won’t make any difference to you and it could well be all over by Christmas. You’ll be safe enough here with me and your grandfather.’
Josie nodded bleakly – Christmas! That was two, nearly three months away. What about her brother and sister? What would they do? Would they miss her? Gran’s voice broke through her train of thought.
‘Come on, lovey, cheer up. Pop into the scullery and finish off those dishes.’ She paused for a moment, and then wagged a finger in Josie’s face. ‘You know what they say, Josie, idle hands make work for the devil.’
That night she climbed the narrow stairs that led to the small bedroom, which was hers when she stayed through the long, summer holidays, and sat dejectedly on her bed.
‘I wish my bruvver and sister were ’ere,’ she muttered. ‘They would know about war and wot is going to ’appen to us.’
She climbed into the big feather bed and lay staring at the ceiling, then with hands clasped together she prayed. ‘Please God let my bruvver and sister come ’ere and bring my Paddy. ’E would like it ’ere. I know ’e would.’
She smiled as she drifted gently into sleep. She didn’t care about the war as long as Paddy was with her. She thought of writing to her mother to ask if he could come and stay with her until the war was over, but then she realised that her mother never replied to any of her letters so what would be the point of it!
Josie was the baby of the family. Her sister Lucy was the eldest and brother George was the middle one. They lived in a tiny council flat near the docks in Greenwich, south-east London.
Her father had worked at the docks since he was fourteen years old and prided himself on the fact that he had never missed a day, except, of course, when he was called up to fight in the First World War. Every morning he would pack himself a sandwich for lunch, and then walk through the narrow London streets until he came to the foot tunnel that ran under the River Thames. Through the tunnel he would walk until he reached the other side, which was known as the ‘Isle of Dogs’.
‘Why do they call that place where you work the Isle of Dogs?’ Josie had asked her father as they sat around the scrubbed, wooden table one day after tea. Father leaned back in his chair, took a rolled-up cigarette from an old tin he carried in his pocket and slowly lit it before answering.
‘Well, Josie, it was like this. Many, many years ago, long before even I was born, the King of England lived in Greenwich.’ He hesitated for a moment and looked at Josie questioningly.
‘You know that big park you play in, Josie? The one up the hill.’
She nodded her head excitedly, anxious for him to go on with his story.
Father rubbed his chin in thought before continuing. ‘Well, the park was the grounds of the royal residence, which is that big white building near the river. The King loved to hunt, but he had so many hunting dogs that there was no room for all of them at the palace, so one of his aides …’
‘What is an aide, Dad?’ Josie asked, screwing up her face.
‘Josie, yer know well enough, it’s very rude to interrupt someone who is talking. If yer do it again I won’t tell you the story. Now, as I was saying! One of his aides suggested that they could build a tunnel under the river to a small island which was uninhabited at the time. Then the dogs could roam free on the island, and when they were nee