The Railway Girls Read online

  Maisie Thomas

  * * *

  THE RAILWAY GIRLS

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  Maisie Thomas was born and brought up in Manchester, which provides the location for her Railway Girls novels. She loves writing stories with strong female characters, set in times when women needed determination and vision to make their mark. The Railway Girls series is inspired by her great aunt Jessie, who worked as a railway clerk during the First World War.

  Maisie now lives on the beautiful North Wales coast with her railway enthusiast husband, Kevin, and their two rescue cats. They often enjoy holidays chugging up and down the UK’s heritage steam railways.

  To the memory of Colette Grant (neé Bourke 1932-2019), who fought for her independence and worked hard all her life. She played hard too, travelling the world, throwing the best parties and moving house more times than you can shake a stick at. A life lived to the full.

  And to Elizabeth and Ray.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to my agent, Laura Longrigg, and my editor, Cassandra Di Bello, for the opportunity to write this series. Their editorial input made this a better book. Thanks also to Jennie Rothwell for picking up the baton part-way through.

  Special thanks go to Gillian, who kindly responded when I asked a question on social media about the Ritz Ballroom’s famous revolving stage. Through Gill I received information from her parents, Fred and Doris Hodson, who generously shared their memories about dancing the nights away in the Manchester of yesteryear. Fred even recalled the name of the music that was played every night at the Ritz when the stage revolved. If you do an online search for ‘Tommy Dorsey Lovely Lady’, you will be able hear Tommy Dorsey & his Orchestra playing the music.

  Thanks also to Melanie Catley, who chose Letitia’s name; Jen Gilroy, who guided me through a difficult time before this book was written; Kevin, my tech elf; and Tara Greaves, Catherine Boardman and Aimée Hogston for their support.

  In February 1922, at the westernmost entrance to Victoria Station in Manchester, a massive memorial was unveiled. It filled an entire wall, the top half of which was made up of coloured tiles laid out to depict a map of the old Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway. Below this stretched a row of one, two, three, four … nine bronze panels in all. The panel at the right-hand end showed St George on his rearing horse, using his spear to slay the dragon. At the left-hand end stood St Michael the Archangel, sword aloft, his foot on the neck of a vanquished Lucifer. These two panels were each flanked by two narrower panels depicting flaming torches, each one bearing a single word: UNITY, STRENGTH, COURAGE and SACRIFICE.

  THIS TABLET IS ERECTED TO PERPETUATE THE MEMORY OF THE MEN OF THE LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE RAILWAY WHOSE NAMES ARE RECORDED AND WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR THEIR KING AND COUNTRY IN THE GREAT WAR 1914–1919.

  The seven bronze panels in between those of the two saints were engraved with long lists of the names of the fallen, men who had left their jobs on the railway to fight in the Great War. A total of 1,460 men from the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway gave their lives in the war to end all wars.

  In March 1940, a group of women stand in front of the war memorial. They are of varying ages and backgrounds and come from different social classes – a solicitor’s wife, a factory owner’s daughter, a sewing machinist, a debutante, a working-class housewife, a clerk, a young wife who has been wrapped in cotton wool, and a girl who wasn’t tall enough for the switchboard. On the surface, they form a diverse group, but they have one thing in common: their willingness and determination, under threat of invasion, to do their bit in this new world war by rising to the challenge of working as railway girls.

  Unity, strength, courage and sacrifice.

  CHAPTER ONE

  February 1940

  ‘I don’t care what war work I do or where I do it – as long as it isn’t here.’

  Mabel perched on the wooden chair on one side of the acres of scarred wood that formed Miss Eckersley’s desk. There was certainly no need for such a huge desk. All it bore was a couple of ledgers held upright between bookends, and a card index in a box. A hole in the corner of the desk-top held a sunken inkwell, while a long groove housed two sharp pencils and a fountain pen.

  Mabel’s back prickled with awareness of the townsfolk standing in an orderly queue behind her. Supposedly they were at a sufficient distance to allow her to conduct this conversation in private, but to Mabel, with nerves skittering like mad throughout her body, they felt a jolly sight closer than Miss Eckersley did. She had hoped that by coming here in the afternoon, there would be fewer people present. Maybe there were, but it didn’t feel like it. Were they earwigging? Putting two and two together? Drat them to hell and back if they were.

  She fixed her chin in what she hoped was a determined line and looked the labour-exchange lady directly in the eye. Miss Eckersley had a reputation locally for keeping more or less the entire population of the town of Annerby, as well as many a moorland village, in regular employment, refusing to permit anyone to skive on the dole.

  Miss Eckersley didn’t so much as blink at Mabel’s outspokenness. ‘You have no desire to work for your father, then, Miss Bradshaw?’

  ‘No.’ Did that come out too quickly? She smiled – or did she? It had been a long time since she had smiled and her face seemed to have forgotten how. The inside of her cheeks felt creaky. ‘I … I want to strike out on my own.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Miss Eckersley’s pencilled-on eyebrows climbed up her forehead. ‘You can join the Land Army. There are plenty of hill-farmers in need of an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ said Mabel.

  ‘Will your parents permit you to move away?’

  ‘I think the war effort trumps parental consent – don’t you?’ Lord, did that sound upper-crust and spoilt-bratty? Two things she definitely wasn’t, even if her parents wouldn’t have altogether minded if she had been. Trying for a conciliatory tone, she added, ‘Miss Eckersley, I really do want to move away from here. Can’t you put me forward for something?’

  ‘Do you imagine I have every job in the kingdom on my books?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Miss Eckersley removed a sheet of paper from a desk drawer. ‘Qualifications?’

  ‘School Certificate.’

  ‘Any Distinctions?’

  ‘No.’ Or to be more accurate: good God, no. She had scraped through by the skin of her teeth. Even then, it had taken her two goes. She had insisted upon staying on at school an extra year to take it again, not to achieve the qualification, but simply to avoid being sent to finishing school.

  ‘What work have you done since lea
ving school?’ Miss Eckersley laid down her fountain pen – what answer was she expecting?

  ‘None.’ Heat flooded Mabel’s face. Twenty-two years of age and never done a day’s work. It hadn’t been for the want of asking. She would have loved nothing better than to be trusted with a role in her father’s factory, but all she had ever been called upon to do was shake hands with the clerical staff and give out the small square envelopes containing the Christmas bonuses.

  Miss Eckersley handed her the sheet of paper across the desk. They both had to extend their arms.

  ‘Fill in your name, address and date of birth, please.’

  Opening the leather handbag that matched her gloves, Mabel took out her gold-nibbed Parker pen. Only the best for Miss Mabel Bradshaw.

  Miss Eckersley took back the sheet of details and wrote on a card, which she handed across the desk.

  ‘Take this to Hunts Bank in Manchester on Thursday. You should arrive no later than a quarter to ten for a ten o’clock start.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Eckersley.’

  Working in a bank? You could hardly call that war work. But she had yearned after a clerical position in her father’s factory for long enough, so she could hardly turn up her nose, could she? Besides, you didn’t say no to Miss Eckersley.

  As she departed, she made a fuss of pulling on her gloves and adjusting her brimless fur hat, so as not to make eye contact with anybody in the queue. She opened the heavy wooden door onto a rush of chill, pulling her woollen scarf higher around her throat. Her brown curls bushed up around her cheeks and the back of her neck, like a cat’s fur fluffing up to keep warm.

  Snow crunched beneath the rubber soles of her galoshes. Oh, the temptation to stuff her hands deep in her pockets, but ladies didn’t slouch around like that. Even School Cert failures who hadn’t attended finishing school knew better than that, not least thanks to The Modern Lady’s Guide to Etiquette, which was Mumsy’s adviser for all things. Would you credit it, there were rules about managing your gloves while removing your coat and the correct way to carry a rolled umbrella. There were even instructions on how to glance over your shoulder in a beguiling manner as you left a room, which would have been hilariously funny, if only Mumsy hadn’t taken it so seriously.

  Something that was less hilarious was Mumsy’s insistence on Mabel’s use of Mumsy and Pops as the names for her parents. Mabel would have much preferred plain old Mum and Dad, but that would make the family sound lower class, apparently. Mumsy had wanted Mummy and Daddy, but Mabel had drawn the line at that.

  ‘I’d look wet if I called you that at my age.’

  So, Mumsy and Pops it was, which made her sound jolly hockey-sticks. But better that than wet.

  She picked her way carefully across the road and headed for the old stone bridge, pausing in the centre to look down at the river, which had swollen recently. Would it burst its banks and flood? That would be interesting, as the water derived its colour from whatever the dye-works spewed into it on any given day. At present, the river was covered by a layer of ice, upon which some ducks dolefully slid about. What a shame she hadn’t brought food for them, but that probably wasn’t allowed under the new regulations.

  Darts of cold in her toes reminded her to get going. It wasn’t long before she began on what started as a gentle slope before shifting to a more serious gradient. As well as occupying the broad valley floor, Annerby reached upwards along the stretch of hills on this side of the valley. Long streets of terraced houses led off in both directions from the appropriately named Hill Climb. At intervals along both pavements stood fancy-topped iron posts. At this time of year, sturdy ropes were looped from one to the next for folk to grab on to for assistance in getting up and down the road. Mind you, if the war continued, the posts’ days were probably numbered. Metal railings and metal gates were already being removed.

  Pops had paid for the posts to be fitted, back at the tail-end of the twenties. It was his first act of benevolence towards the town of his birth.

  ‘Aye, benevolence that means no bugger can miss a day’s work on account of heavy snow,’ Mabel had heard someone mutter on one of her infrequent visits to the factory.

  Benevolence was her father’s preferred word for it. Not charity. He might be moneyed now, but he came from a background in which being on the receiving end of charity was a matter of shame.

  ‘We have a position to uphold in the community,’ he was fond of decreeing, as if they were the poshest of the posh. ‘My wife and daughter should be seen to undertake acts of benevolence to the poor.’

  Which sounded very grand. But if they had been proper posh, they would have called it charity and taken the gratitude for granted.

  Mabel peeled off Hill Climb, steadying herself as she entered Vicarage Lane, where the lines of Victorian cottages had snow almost up to their downstairs window sills. One of Mumsy’s acts of benevolence had been to ask for a list of the elderly poor from Sister Beddow, who was in charge of the district nurses, so that she – or rather, their housekeeper – could provide what Mumsy called ‘comforts’, as if the recipients were soldiers in the trenches.

  But Mabel had soon realised that, much as the packets of tea and twists of sugar, the balls of wool and the occasional sack of coal, were appreciated, what these elderly folk craved more than anything was company, so she had taken to doing a series of weekly visits, something she loved. Was there something in her bones that responded to folk from a lower rank of life? A lower rank – what would Grandad have said to that, eh? He had died ten years ago now, but she had never stopped thinking about him and missing him. He had been a wheeltapper on the railways and had never ceased to be amazed by his son’s rise to greater things.

  What would Grandad say now, if he knew of the terrible thing she had done? She would never have been able to hide the truth from him, she was certain of that. As it was, the accident she had caused had resulted in an outpouring of sympathy from all sides. Sympathy she didn’t deserve in the slightest. Sympathy that made her feel raw inside.

  Paths had been dug through the snow along Vicarage Lane’s cobbled road, and from the roadway to each door. With only a couple of stomach-swooping moments when one of her feet slid from under her, Mabel arrived outside number 8. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see any of her old dears any more. She didn’t want to see anybody. But she couldn’t ignore her duty. It was the only thing she had left of the once-decent person she used to be.

  She took a deep breath to prepare herself, then with feigned cheerfulness banged on the door, opening it with a call of, ‘Knock, knock. Can I come in?’

  Mrs Kennedy, a little mouse of a woman, with swollen knuckles on once busy but now pretty well useless hands, sat in an ancient armchair that, if it had been any closer to the hearth, would have tipped her into the fire. She had a blanket over her knees, a black woollen shawl around her thin shoulders, and covering her fine white hair a widow’s cap that was pulled down over her ears and tied beneath her chin.

  ‘You’re a good girl, coming out in this weather,’ she said. ‘Bung the kettle on, there’s a good lass.’

  ‘You all right for coal, Mrs Kennedy?’ Mabel asked as she bustled about.

  ‘Aye, love.’

  ‘Are you telling the truth? I’ll be most put out if I come in one day and find you frozen solid because of a bit of pride.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky to your elders.’

  Of all her old dears, Mrs Kennedy was her favourite. There was something that made them get along, but today she must be careful about what she said. Not just because of the truth behind the accident she had caused, but also because she mustn’t spill the beans about her interview at the bank. She had to tell Mumsy and Pops first. So she breezed through their conversation, hugging her secret to her and trying not to feel disappointed that she was only going to work in a bank when what she wanted to do was proper war work. Had all the bank clerks joined up?

  When she left Mrs Kennedy, the afternoon was draw
ing in. She returned to Hill Climb. With her gas-mask box slung over one shoulder and the handles of her handbag looped over the other, she grasped the rope and proceeded to haul herself up the hill. It only took a moment for her handbag to slide down her arm and dangle from her elbow, which was a nuisance, but she didn’t bother restoring it to its original position. Her body warmed pleasantly, then less pleasantly, as she toiled up the hill. The ladies of Annerby had no need of the Women’s League of Health and Beauty in this weather.

  After she passed the top row of houses, the climb became gentler and what were known down the hill as ‘the big houses’ came into view higher up, in a position from which the well-to-do could in the most literal sense look down on everybody else – though it wasn’t just the townsfolk who were looked down upon. Those families who had lived up here for generations weren’t best pleased that Arnie Bradshaw had bought his way into such a privileged position.

  By the time she had walked between the eight-foot-tall gateposts topped by stone griffins whose presumably once-sharp features had weathered over time into something more blurred, Mabel’s pace had reduced to a trudge and the daylight dazzle of snow had eased into the faded grey of winter’s early dusk. She put on a spurt along the drive, between humps of snow beneath which were the shrubberies. Stamping her feet as she marched up the salted steps, she let herself into Kirkland House. The hall, which was full of dark wood everywhere you looked, was gloomy – gloomier than usual, and that was saying something. It was that odd, in-between time of day. Too early for the blackout, but you mustn’t put lights on because of the falling darkness.

  Shedding her outdoor things, she dashed upstairs in search of woolly socks and her warmest cardy. A few weeks ago, she had shifted her cheval mirror to a different angle so she was less likely to catch sight of herself, but as she rootled around deep in a drawer to find the socks, she caught an unexpected glimpse. The velvet-rayon dress in two shades of green, with its buttoned bodice and matching collar, cuffs and belt, had been a perfect fit not so long ago. Like all her clothes, it had been tailor-made for her. And, like all her clothes, it now hung loosely. She wasn’t supposed to know, but Cook was under orders to fatten her up. Some hope. Everything that went in her mouth tasted of sawdust.