War Widow Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by June Francis

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two

  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

  Copyright

  About the Book

  For young Flora Cooke the misery of the Second World War and the hardship it brings is both real and unrelenting. When her husband Tom is reported missing, presumed dead, Flora is left to raise her family alone amidst the ruins of war-torn Liverpool.

  As she struggles to come to terms with the tragic news, Flora attracts the attention of two very different men. One offers security whilst the other offers the prospect of a new life in California. Both promise her love.

  But it takes another great tragedy before Flora finally listens to the promptings of her heart and seizes a second chance at the happiness that has for so long eluded her.

  About the Author

  June Francis is the author of several sagas, including A Mother’s Duty and Mersey Girl. She lives in Liverpool and is married with three sons.

  www.junefrancis.com

  Also by June Francis

  A Mother’s Duty

  A Daughter’s Choice

  For the Sake of the Children

  Lily’s War

  Mersey Girl

  Prologue

  Flora Cooke had been dreaming again. She woke with a start, forcing her eyelids up. Dawn was pearling the bedroom wall, and for a moment she lay stiff with anxiety before making the effort to reach for the man who lay beside her.

  Waking brought relief flowing to all her limbs, easing her fear. ‘Tom,’ she whispered, placing her arm across his naked chest. He stirred but made no answer. ‘Tom!’ Her fingers tugged one of the golden hairs on his chest.

  ‘Watch it, Flo,’ he murmured sleepily, slapping her hand. ‘Or I’ll do the same to you but harder.’

  ‘I don’t have curls on my chest.’ There was a hint of laughter in her voice as she leaned over him, and her bare breasts brushed his chest tantalisingly before she took his face between her palms, and kissed him full on the mouth.

  His arms wrapped round her. ‘You should eat more crusts for curls,’ he said softly, the moment he had breath. ‘Then after the war we could make our fortune. I could paint you and exhibit your portrait all over Lancashire. Roll up, roll up! Come and see the carroty-haired double-breasted beauty.’

  Her pale brow creased. ‘My hair’s not carroty. But I like the idea of making a fortune. Maybe then we could have that house I dream about.’

  ‘You and your dreams,’ he scoffed. ‘They’ll never get you anywhere, Flo. Our class has to work for everything.’

  ‘Don’t be so miserable. You should have more faith.’ She stretched herself out on him and buffeted his chin with her head. ‘You didn’t really mean that about painting me half naked and selling my picture?’ Her tone was serious. ‘I don’t mind you looking at me, Tom, but other men – no.’

  ‘If it was going to make us a fortune, I would,’ he teased. ‘Now there’s my dream, Flo – painting. It beats soldiering or making door frames and windows for folk. But as for you, girl, you really have no shame. Look at the way you’re behaving now – you hussy.’ He caught her by the hair, dragging her head back so that he could the better nuzzle her breasts.

  ‘What’s the shame in it when we’re man and wife?’ she demanded. ‘Doesn’t it say in the Bible that a man leaves his mother and father to cleave to his wife? I’m making sure that you’re happy with me. Then you’re not likely to go seeking elsewhere for home comforts.’ She nudged his head with her elbow and he looked up into her hazel eyes. ‘I met this girl and her job was emptying the pockets of the uniforms sent back home to be cleaned. She said it was an eye opener to what soldiers got up to when away from home. So you do know what I mean? I’m making sure you don’t roam.’

  He laughed. ‘So that’s your recipe for any man who might want to stray.’

  ‘I believe if you love a man, then you make sure he’s well fed and well bedded – that’s it almost in a nutshell.’ She wriggled, brushing her stomach against his, and he caught his breath. She laughed, feeling the power swell in her. Then tears sparkled on her dark red lashes. ‘It was you who told me they were the important things when we first got married. I was an innocent,’ she whispered huskily. ‘But it hasn’t been easy, what with the war. Three years – that’s all we had really, before you were called up. So now we have to make the most of our time together. But maybe after the war – you may scoff, Tom – then perhaps my recipe and my dream of us all being in that house will work together for us. Happy ever after we’ll be.’

  ‘You read too many books,’ he muttered, a flame of desire igniting the depths of his brown eyes. ‘Forget your dreams and think of right now!’ He pulled her down on him, kissing her forcibly until her soft lips parted, and his tongue probed the sweetness of her mouth.

  She responded enthusiastically, casting all cares aside as she offered herself unreservedly to him. Even after eight years of marriage she found him exciting, and desire soared.

  They rolled over and he entered her, thrusting hard so that she gasped. Sometimes he was too rough but she coped and never complained. He moved slowly and she knew that he wanted to prolong the pleasure. It could be the last time for who knew how long? But his urgent need demanded instant gratification. Their bodies erupted into frenzied activity that had the rhythm of life in its beat. They were one giant heart pumping energy and pleasure. No other man had ever known her, and since girlhood she had willingly been his slave. She muffled a scream of delight against his shoulder, biting his flesh as he sent warm currents of pleasure through her.

  He rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘Flora Dora, you’re a wanton.’

  She was hurt. ‘No, I’m not. You taught me to enjoy it.’ And pulling his tawny head on to her breast, she said, ‘I love you.’ The words were only a thread of sound because tears were near. Soon they would part – him to his south coast camp and her home to Liverpool. She did not know how she was going to bear saying goodbye. In truth she decided that she would not. ‘Tarrah!’ or ‘Cheerio!’ would be better. They did not have the final feeling of a goodbye. She swallowed to ease her throat. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he responded tersely, before kissing her breast. He lifted his head and gazed into her face. ‘Don’t start getting all maudlin on me, Flo. I’m hungry. Let’s go and see what this place has in the way of breakfast.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ She would have liked to have lain longer with him in her arms, but now she just stared at him, determined to impress on her memory every nuance of his countenance – the brown eyes fringed with golden lashes, the square, slightly bristly jaw; the aquiline nose which often gave a haughty cast to his face when he was vexed. Then she would have to coax and tease him until he was in a good mood again. She seldom failed.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘What are you thinking, staring at me like that?’ he demanded, stretching and sticking
one hardened foot out of the blankets. ‘You’d think I was a stranger.’

  ‘I was thinking how glad I’ll be when the war is over,’ she murmured, not wanting, or even knowing how, to tell him that she was absorbing the way he looked in the flesh. Her dream had frightened her, and a photograph, posed and too often wooden-faced, was not the same to remember someone by. She felt as if a hand squeezed her heart. How she hated the war! The uncertainty and the fearing to hope that all would come right in the end.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t be as good when we’re sleeping together every night.’ His eyes scanned her rosy oval face as he reached for the cigarettes on the little table by the side of the bed. ‘It wasn’t always. At least this way we never get fed up of each other.’

  Anxiety darkened her eyes, and she sat up abruptly. ‘What a thing to say, Tom. I was happy doing whatever you wanted. Were you getting tired of me before the war?’

  He made her wait for his answer as he lit up and exhaled his breath in a puff of smoke. ‘Not that I remember. But who knows? If the war hadn’t come …’ He grinned as she opened her mouth, her face expressing her pained indignation. ‘Come on, girl, you know I still fancy you.’ He kissed her bare shoulder. ‘I’ve just made you happy, haven’t I, you little whore?’

  Her mouth drooped. ‘Don’t call me that, Tom. I’m your wife!’

  He moved his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. A joke because you’re always so eager. Now shall we get up and have breakfast? Then it’s heigh ho, back to messing about in boats I have to go.’

  ‘Boats?’ She leaned over to pick up her frock from the floor. Chill fear clutched her heart again. Not far away was the English Channel, and the other side of that – France and Hitler’s soldiers.

  ‘Don’t be worrying.’ He sat back against the headboard, watching her graceful movements as she dressed. No underwear, only a green and white flower-patterned old cotton frock. He hoped that she did have some knickers somewhere to put on later. He knew she knew he liked her going without when she was with him, and she had almost always been amenable – in the beginning she had been shy about stripping off, but he had soon cured her of that. He had told her he loved her body and she had gradually lost all embarrassment. She looked quite lovely this morning, with the flush on her cheeks and her shoulder-length copper-coloured hair in a tangle. He would have liked to have taken her again, but there was no time if they were to eat. ‘Tell me about the kids.’ Tom inhaled luxuriously. ‘How’s our George behaving himself?’

  ‘The same as usual,’ she murmured, beginning to brush her hair. ‘But he’s too much like you. A mad Alec! He never seems to see danger.’

  ‘You see enough of it for all of us.’ He added lazily, ‘Stop worrying, Flo. It might never happen.’

  ‘But then again it might,’ she said quietly, her hands trembling. Her dream was with her again. ‘He plays soldiers or football most of the time. Soldiers! Tom, you’ve no idea what he gets up to playing war games.’ Her voice was brittle.

  ‘He’s a lad and it’s war time, so he’s bound to play and pretend. Don’t we all pretend at times?’ he muttered tersely, apprehension tightening his stomach.

  ‘So you think it’s okay to collect shrapnel and shells, and lob them at each other over broken-down walls, pretending to kill each other? I get scared. He’s only seven, and he’s always in and out of bombed houses. I wish you were able to speak to him, love,’ she said earnestly. ‘Or write him a letter even, telling him it’s dangerous. He’d listen to you.’

  ‘You reckon? He hardly knows me.’ A stream of smoke issued from his nostrils. ‘Maybe I’ll write. Is anything else bothering you?’ he murmured absently. ‘Are you managing on your allowance? I know it’s not much.’

  ‘I’m managing,’ she said quickly, determined not to bother him with the difficulties that wives with young children faced every day. The one pound, two shillings and five pence army pay did not go far, and she had considered finding a part-time job. She had Rosie’s name on a nursery waiting list, but it could be some time before she heard anything about that. Her father had lent her the money to come south, but she would have to pay him back – even if it was only a couple of coppers a week. She had asked him about looking after Rosie for a couple of hours a day, but he had said that she was too much of handful. She looked at her husband. ‘Rosie doesn’t know you at all.’

  ‘I know.’ He got out of bed and went to wash in the china flower-sprigged basin on the stand in the corner. ‘That’s one of the annoying things about army life. I’ve got a daughter I’ve only seen once.’ He pulled a face as he began to wash. ‘I’ll write her a letter too if you like. “To my darling daughter – are you as gorgeous as your mam?”’

  ‘I could read it to her,’ she said pensively, brushing her hair. Then she added shyly, ‘Do you really think I’m gorgeous?’

  ‘Would I say it if I didn’t mean it?’ He glanced at her, soapy hands resting on his hips. ‘If I had to toss a coin between you and your sister, who would I want to come up heads?’

  She smiled. ‘You’re teasing me. Our Hilda is lovely, and you could have had her. I couldn’t believe my luck when she went out with Jimmy Martin, and you asked me out. Although her and Jimmy didn’t last long. We’ve lasted, haven’t we? We still love each other.’

  His eyes flickered over her face, before dropping. ‘Too true. If I’d stuck with your Hilda, it wouldn’t have been like it is with us. She can’t be trusted.’ He began to lather his inner thighs. ‘How long since last you saw her? I hope she doesn’t come bothering you again.’

  ‘A couple of years – she took the baby with her after a row with Father. I do worry about her sometimes.’

  He gave a sharp laugh. ‘You don’t have to worry about your Hilda. She’ll find somebody else to get round. She’s a conniving bitch.’

  ‘Tom!’ There was almost a rebuke in her voice. ‘She’s my sister, and if she ever needs me I’ve got to be there. Aunt Beattie always preached that families should help each other. She looked after us when Mam died and Father was at sea. Hilda was all I had then. We slept together, ate together, even played together sometimes – remember?’

  ‘She always thought you a nuisance, tagging on behind the gang. You and some of the other young ones.’ He laughed. ‘Old days, Flo. Times change. People change. Now shut up about your Hilda.’

  She fell silent, watching him pull on his khaki shirt, hoping that she had not annoyed him. She hated being out of friends. Going over to him, she wrapped her arms round his waist. ‘I love you. I wish you didn’t have to go.’

  He paused in the act of buttoning. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said impatiently. ‘I have to. Besides we just might have Jerry on the run soon, and then I’ll be home by Christmas.’

  ‘I’ve heard something like that before.’ A trickle of apprehension turned her legs weak. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  He shrugged. ‘The big nobs are always going on about a Second Front. But don’t you start worrying about me. I’ve come through so far, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her throat constricted, and she rested her cheek against his back. ‘Don’t take chances, Tom. I know what you’re like – you don’t think of the consequences. Don’t play the hero.’

  ‘Who, me?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll keep my head down.’

  ‘Good.’ She didn’t believe him, remembering his daredevilry when they were younger. He had always been a ring leader, daring the other boys into doing all sorts of dangerous tricks. ‘Do be careful.’ Her eyes pleaded with him through the round wooden-framed mirror.

  He pulled away from her, a scowl on his face. ‘Don’t go on, Flo! You’ll have me nervous.’

  She smiled. ‘You don’t have a nerve in your body. I’ve never seen you scared of anything.’

  He did not smile back. ‘Shut up, Flo. And get a move on if I’m going to the station with you.’

  ‘Don’t be cross.’ Her expressive hazel eyes clouded. ‘Perhaps it would be better t
o say our farewells here. I hate the waiting about until the last second. Then we wave and wave as the train puffs and puffs. It drags out the pain and I hate it.’

  ‘God, Flo!’ he cried angrily. ‘Don’t go on, or I won’t come to the station with you.’

  ‘Oh no! Come!’ She reached for his hands and clung to them. ‘But just one long kiss and a tarrah – then go.’

  ‘A tarrah, girl! How Liverpudlian.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘Say hello to the Liver Bird for me. Although I’m only half Scouse, I’ve a feeling sometimes for the sight of the thing.’

  ‘A home feeling,’ she said huskily, her throat tight with tears as she went into his arms and hugged him. They kissed and went down to breakfast.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  The summer day started well. It was a perfect morning of bright sun and polished blue sky. The pigeons cooed gently beneath the eaves of the terraced house, and the nasturtiums in the windowboxes in the backyard put forth orange and yellow flowers. There was lamb’s liver at the butcher’s, and Flora had enough money and coupons. For once Rosie, now three, was not screaming after her brother George, who had gone out to play, but instead laughing at the antics of the cat chasing a mouse.

  Then the mouse scrabbled up the tablecloth with the cat in blazing pursuit, and the sugar basin was sent flying.

  ‘You stupid moggy,’ yelled Flora, daring to put a foot on the floor as she moved Rosie off her knee and on to the chair. Now the cat had the mouse pinned beneath his paw. Flora made a swipe at it but the cat only stared at her balefully, its ginger and black tail lashing furiously.

  Flora decided to ignore it and turned instead to stare at the mixture of glass and sugar on the rag rug. The sugar was a whole week’s ration. She could have wept. Perhaps it might not have seemed such a tragedy if she had not been reading over Tom’s letter that morning. But then everything seemed too much to cope with since the invasion of Europe had begun a few weeks ago. What lay ahead for Tom? Her nerves were taut with the anticipation of bad news.