The Railway Girls in Love Read online

  Maisie Thomas

  * * *

  The Railway Girls in Love

  Contents

  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.

  Also by Maisie Thomas

  The Railway Girls

  Secrets of the Railway Girls

  To the memory of Dennis Bourke (1921–2001) and Frank Grant (1924–2014), who served in the RAF during the war.

  And to Roger and Michael

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to two unknown people who each took a snap of a wartime wedding. These two photographs provided the inspiration for the wedding in this story.

  Love and thanks to Jen Gilroy and Christina Banach; Kathy Evans and Gayle Biggins; Catherine Boardman for organising the wonderful prize draws; and Lou Capper, Julie Barham, Karen Mace, Shaz Goodwin and Vikkie Wakeham for their support.

  Special thanks to Kevin for finding the perfect job for Gil; and a big hug for Beverley Hopper. She knows why.

  Chapter One

  February 1939

  With her gloved hands thrust into the big patch pockets of her rust-coloured wool coat, and her scarf wound snugly around her neck and tucked in beneath the wide lapels, Mabel Bradshaw tramped along, lifting her feet clear of the thick snow so as not to let it spill over the tops of her calf-high galoshes. The benefit of wearing two pairs of thick socks over her stockings wouldn’t last long if they got wet.

  Beside her, Althea, her best friend, matched her pace.

  ‘Your cheeks are glowing,’ said Mabel.

  ‘Which is a polite way of saying they’re bright red,’ said Althea, ‘and so’s my nose.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  ‘What would your mother say?’ teased Althea.

  Mabel laughed. Mumsy lived and breathed etiquette. ‘But just think how pale and interesting I’ll look when I’ve thawed out.’ She snuggled her hands deeper inside her pockets; only up here on the tops could she get away with such slovenly behaviour.

  The two of them crunched through the snow to the edge of the steep hill above Mabel’s home and looked down into the long valley below. Behind them stretched the Lancashire moors. Usually the breeze here was so full of brisk smells that Mabel could practically taste them as a rich, earthy, green concoction, but not today. Today, as for the past month, the moors had been coated in snow and the air was as fresh as peppermint.

  Below lay the town of Annerby. It was still called a market town, but it had its share of factories too, as well as a railway station. Mabel’s gaze was drawn to the building that housed Bradshaw’s Ball Bearings and Other Small Components, the factory that represented her father’s life’s work. The son of a railway worker, he had made good – and more than good. He had prospered to the extent of purchasing – note, purchasing, not renting – Kirkland House, one of the town’s poshest properties, high up on the side of the hill. It was here that Mabel had grown up.

  Now she looked down at Bradshaw’s Ball Bearings. Would their factory still be producing small components this time next year? Pops said that when the war came – when, not if, and Mabel had trembled inwardly – factories up and down the country would be called upon to turn over production to whatever they were told to make to help win the war. Mabel had longed to ask a dozen questions, but couldn’t, because Pops hadn’t been talking to her. It was something she had overheard.

  ‘Here comes a train,’ said Althea.

  Mabel felt a burst of pleasure. She liked trains. They made her think of Grandad. He might be gone, but he definitely wasn’t forgotten, especially not by her. His son might have risen in the world, but Grandad had stayed put in his cottage near the railway tracks and had never for a single moment considered leaving his job as a wheeltapper, using a long-handled hammer to tap train wheels, the quality of the ring that was produced telling his experienced ear whether or not the wheel was in good order.

  Down on the valley floor, white clouds puffed out of the funnel on top of the front end of the locomotive, which pulled a line not of coaches, but of goods wagons. Some had names painted on the sides because they belonged to companies that used the railways all the time. At the rear came several unbranded wagons, their contents covered by tarpaulins.

  ‘D’you suppose the train is bringing us our air-raid shelters?’ asked Mabel. ‘Distribution is starting this month.’

  ‘We won’t get ours for ages yet,’ said Althea. ‘It’ll be the cities that get them first, and ports and places like that.’

  She almost made it sound as if Annerby would have no need of them. Mabel thought of Bradshaw’s Ball Bearings and Other Small Components being turned over to war work, but kept it to herself. Would Jerry know where the factories were? If rural Annerby wasn’t near the top of the list for Anderson shelters and the war suddenly started, was her beloved hometown in danger of taking a clobbering, with no protection for its citizens? A shudder ran through her.

  ‘Cold?’ asked Althea. ‘Daft question. It’s freezing up here. We should start walking again before our feet turn into blocks of ice.’

  She dug her hand into the crook of Mabel’s elbow and moved in close, their arms pressed up against one another. Mabel squeezed her elbow against her side, creating a warm nest for Althea’s hand as they set off.

  They were more than friends. They were as good as sisters, something they had never tired of telling people when they were growing up. As a child, Mabel had wished she had smooth buttermilk-blonde hair so that they could look like sisters too, but her own hair was dark brown and she reckoned she kept the hairpin industry in business, since, left to their own devices, her long waves liked nothing better than to fluff up all over the show.

  ‘I wish your family was coming to London for the Season,’ Mabel sighed.

  Her brief hope that Their Majesties’ state visit to Canada and America in May would mean there would be no London Season this year had been well and truly dashed by the news that the Season was going to commence several weeks early, in March.

  ‘Why don’t I ask Mumsy if you can come with us?’ she suggested.

  ‘No, you mustn’t. My parents don’t have the same aspirations as yours.’

  That was true. Althea’s folks were minor
gentry and content to remain so. There had never been any question of Althea’s being spirited off for a London Season. It was the girls’ lifelong friendship that had created the connection between the two families, and if Althea’s parents entertained any reservations about the nouveau-riche Bradshaws, all Mabel could say was that the girls had never been made aware of it.

  Sometimes the thought of the forthcoming Season made her feel as if she had a weight lodged inside her chest, but Pops was determined, so there was no getting out of it. Heaven alone knew how he had brought it about, but he was now in touch with a dowager viscountess who made a considerable income each year by presenting debutantes at court if they didn’t have a mother or aunt who was allowed to present them. A quick flick through Mumsy’s etiquette book had shown that there were more reasons than you could shake a stick at as to why a lady wouldn’t be deemed eligible to do the presenting. Well, that was a comfort of sorts. If the viscountess made a living in this manner, it meant that Mabel wouldn’t be alone in not being presented by her mother.

  ‘I just wish you were having your dresses made up here,’ said Althea, ‘so I could come with you to the fittings and see them all.’

  But no, Mabel’s wardrobe was to be the product of the most high-class London dress salons. Was it ungrateful not to look forward to that? Possibly. But honestly, what place was there in the London Season for the granddaughter of a wheeltapper, even if she had been privately educated and her father had money to burn? Knowing that the Bradshaws wouldn’t be the only new money on the circuit was no help. Mabel just wanted to stay at home. Simple as that.

  With no Althea to back her up, Mabel coped alone with dress fittings and curtseying lessons.

  Yes, curtseying lessons! she wrote to Althea. Who would have imagined such a thing existed? I am able to sink to the floor with perfect steadiness, but how I’m supposed to rise again without wobbling beats me. I’ve taken a tumble more than once, I don’t mind telling you. The thought of making my curtsey in the presence of royalty is terrifying.

  She shared her coming-out ball with a girl whose family was of limited means but impeccable social standing, which meant they could invite all the right people, who were then obliged to acknowledge the Bradshaws. Mabel had cringed at the idea of this until she realised it would have been a whole lot worse to have had her own dance and run the risk of not being able to fill the ballroom of the splendid house Pops had rented.

  What made it worse was that Althea was having a whale of a time without her.

  The Thornleys had a dance at their house. There were lots of young men, as Bobby has three chums visiting. It so happens I’d already met them when I was out riding. Bobby introduced them as Will, Ollie and Gil, so I assumed they were William, Oliver and Gilbert, but at the dance it turned out they are Wilson, Ollerton and Gilchrist, but I still think of them as Will, Ollie and Gil and everyone calls them that.

  It became clear that she seemed to be doing a lot of thinking about Gil in particular. His first name was Iain, with an ‘i’ in it twice because of Scottish ancestry. Althea didn’t call him Iain because of not wanting to sound forward, though it was perfectly acceptable to call him Gil, that being his nickname. Gil and the others – and it didn’t escape Mabel’s notice that the others were soon lumped together without individual names – had been chums at Oxford. Gil had been taken into his family’s law firm, but if war broke out he intended to join up.

  Gil had hazel eyes and a lean face that was serious in repose, though when he smiled … Mabel grinned as she read the rest. If you’re ever in need of extra money, you could always write romantic novels, she wrote back. Gil could write and shoot and he was very good with children (underlined twice) and had played lions and tigers with Caroline Walsh’s young twins for simply ages. And last night he had played the piano all evening so everyone else could dance, which was utterly spiffing of him, of course, but oh how Althea had longed for someone to offer to take over from him so she could drag him onto the floor.

  Are you practising your new signature? Mabel replied.

  She imagined Althea canoodling in the orchard. She wouldn’t mind a spot of canoodling herself if the right man came along. Pops was hoping for what Mumsy called a socially advantageous marriage, which was a delicate way of saying that they hoped Mabel would bag herself a young gentleman with an impeccable pedigree and preferably a title. Would said gentleman be permitted by his family to show an interest in the granddaughter of a railwayman? He might well be, if the family was all pedigree and no cash. From wheeltapper to Honourable in three generations, with the highly successful Bradshaw’s Ball Bearings and Other Small Components in between. Was that what lay in store for Mabel?

  Did all the old families look down on the Bradshaws because they were new money or were some of the old families eyeing them up for the very same reason? It was impossible to tell, because everyone was faultlessly civil. That was a sign of good breeding, wasn’t it? Courtesy to all, regardless of circumstances. But you didn’t know what they murmured in private, did you?

  With her pulse fluttering in unhappy self-consciousness much of the time, Mabel lapped up Althea’s letters, which featured Gil more and more. With the threat of war in the offing, the young Thornleys seemed to be racketing around having a high old time, and the more friends they could persuade to join in the better. By day, there were rambles across the moors and drives to beauty spots, while the evenings were filled with music and merrymaking.

  Meanwhile, Mabel lived more or less in terror of the dances in London. Was she the only girl here whose throat ached in dread at the mere sight of a dance card? First, there was the desperation to have her card filled with the names of partners, but instead of making her feel better, a full card then engendered a fresh anxiety. Was it a ‘pity’ dance? Worse, might it be a ‘fishing’ dance, where a chap requested the pleasure because he had heard about the Bradshaw fortune?

  While Mabel endured all this, the young set in and around Annerby were having all kinds of fun.

  We played hide-and-seek last night, Althea wrote. Can you believe it?

  A faint shiver travelled across the skin on Mabel’s arms. It happened sometimes. Mostly she was wryly amused by Mumsy’s obsession with the rules of etiquette (‘Smile prettily as you enter the room, Mabel … Don’t shake hands, Mabel. Apply gentle pressure … Oh, heavens, I can never remember whether these tongs are for sandwiches or asparagus … ’), but occasionally she experienced a frisson of what she thought of as nouveau-riche nerves – the feeling that, while proper gentry could stretch the rules to snapping point and get away with it, folk from new money had better watch their p’s and q’s.

  In the game of hide-and-seek, which had taken place on the ground floor of the Thornleys’ house, there had evidently been a great deal of scuffling and muffled laughter as chaps opened a cupboard or slid behind a potted palm in search of a hiding place, only to discover the place was already taken, obliging them to scuttle off and try somewhere else before time ran out.

  There I was, in an alcove in the rear of the entrance hall, and who should choose the same place but Gil! What wonderful luck! The moment he saw me, he started to withdraw, but just then Ollie shouted, ‘Coming, ready or not!’ so I pulled him back and there we were together in that tiny space. My heart was hammering fit to burst. I wanted to snuggle up to him – purely for the purpose of the two of us squeezing into a single hiding place, of course!! – but Sarah Walsh burst in, seeking a hidey-hole, and instead of Gil and myself enjoying a secret moment, we had to put up with Sarah playing gooseberry. I wonder if she realised. Honestly, I could have crowned her.

  Mabel eagerly awaited the next letter, certain that, having been thwarted in the alcove, Gil would get Althea on her own by some other means – but apparently not. Mabel’s pen flew across the page in response as she tried to make Althea look on the bright side.

  Don’t be down-hearted. It shows he’s a gentleman. You don’t want a chap who’s NST.

  Alt
hea’s next letter ended with PS NST?

  Not Safe in Taxis, wrote Mabel. This London Season might be hell on earth, but at least I’ve brushed up on my slang.

  Althea’s next letter was a heartbroken scrawl. Gil had gone home – he’d had to return to the office. She couldn’t wait for them to be together again: … but of course we can write. I admit to being the most frightful hussy – I wrote first! Imagine what the etiquette book would have to say about that!

  Lucky Althea, having a man to love, even if they were obliged to be apart for the time being. Althea might be down in the dumps, but to Mabel she was the luckiest girl in the world.

  When the Bradshaws returned to Annerby, minus the heirloom engagement ring that Pops had hoped for, Mabel was relieved to leave London behind. She was eager to talk over the dire experience in minute detail with Althea, but Althea’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  Mabel slipped her arm around her friend’s shoulders. ‘Chin up. I know how much you miss him, but think of all the love letters.’

  Althea’s face crumpled, her body curling over in distress as she began to cry. As well as being concerned, Mabel was astonished. What had she said wrong?

  ‘I heard from Gil’s sister this morning,’ Althea managed to say.

  ‘Well, that’s good, surely? More or less a welcome to the family.’

  ‘If only.’ Althea groaned. ‘I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.’ She released a huff of breath and shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she shook her head. ‘My letters to you weren’t as honest as they might have been. That is, everything I said was true. Everything happened just as I said. It’s just that … ’ Althea’s words caught on a sob and she cupped her hand over her mouth while Mabel sat close with an arm about her shoulders. ‘My letters were wishful thinking. I can see that now. I wanted so much to believe that Gil felt the same way I did.’