The Secret Sister

THE SECRET SISTER A COMPLETELY GRIPPING AND UPLIFTING WW2 PAGE-TURNER LIZ TRENOW BOOKS BY LIZ TRENOW The Secret Sister Searching for My Daughter Our Last Letter (published in the UK as Under a Wartime Sky) All the Things We Lost (published in the UK as The Poppy Factory) The Lost Soldiers (published in the UK as In Love and War) The Secrets of the Lake The Dressmaker of Draper’s Lane The Hidden Thread (published in the UK as The Silk Weaver) The Forgotten Seamstress The Last Telegram Available in Audio Searching for My Daughter (available in the UK and US) CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Epilogue Searching for My Daughter 1 Hear More from Liz Books by Liz Trenow A Letter from Liz Our Last Letter All the Things We Lost The Lost Soldiers A Note on the History of The Secret Sister Acknowledgements * This book is dedicated to the memory of Ivor Singer, 1929–2014 Bevin Boy 1943–1947 1 MAY 1940 For a few blissful moments Lizzie felt almost happy, humming as she hung out the washing: ‘Somewhere, over the rainbow, lah lah laah.’ She’d heard the tune on the radio and it had been in her head ever since. It was such a beautiful spring morning, the sun bright in a vivid blue sky, hawthorn hedges bursting into snowy billows of blossom, birds competing in song to secure the hearts of the prettiest mates. She didn’t even mind when the clothes pegs flicked off and flew out of reach, or when the breeze flapped the wet sheets into her face. It was a perfect day for drying, and tonight, as she snuggled into bed, the delicious fragrance in the linen of fresh air and sunshine would make it all worth the effort. Besides, keeping busy helped her to forget, even for a few moments, that just on the other side of the North Sea men were firing guns, dropping bombs, shooting each other down in planes, charging across the land in terrifying tanks. And dying in their thousands. Even so, large parts of their lives remained strangely normal. Lizzie and her twin brother, Edward, still went to school every day. Their older brother, Tom, went out to work as a mechanic at the shipyard where Pa was the manager. The yard had never been busier, with new orders from the navy arriving almost every week. But most night-times saw both Pa and Tom out with the Home Guard until late. Ma had joined the Women’s Voluntary Service and proudly donned her smart green uniform each morning, except when she was going to be at home sewing, knitting or baking, as she was this Saturday. Everyone in this quiet seaside town seemed to be holding their breath, not knowing what further terrors war would bring. A menacing sense of uncertainty hung in the air like a heavy grey cloud, a low hum of anxiety that infected everything. Lizzie tried her best to ignore it, most of the time. She pegged the last pillowcase, hoisted up the line with the long wooden prop, picked up the empty wicker basket and turned back to the house. Pa was leaning forward to turn off the radiogram when they heard the announcement that would change everything. Just as in households across the land, it had become the family’s evening routine to gather around the radiogram before supper. Lately the news had been grim. The ‘phoney war’ had gone on for months, but then the fighting had started in earnest. The Dutch and Belgians had surrendered, and it was clear the Germans would overrun France within days. The British Expeditionary Force had retreated to the coast. Even Winston Churchill, newly elected as prime minister, admitted that it would be ‘foolish… to disguise the gravity of the hour’. What everyone had thought impossible, that the Germans might actually be planning to invade Britain, had now become a terrifying possibility. And now: ‘The Ministry of Shipping is calling on all owners of seaworthy ships of shallow draught able to reach Dover within the next twenty-four hours to make their craft available. They are needed to ferry troops from the beach at Dunkirk to the transport ships waiting at sea. The lives of our brave men are depending on you.’ Pa leapt to his feet. ‘Did you hear that? Mary Ellen is sitting in the mud berth gathering limpets when she could be out saving lives.’ Mary Ellen was a traditional motor cruiser he’d restored from a near wreck a few years before. It was his pride and joy, but the use of pleasure craft had been banned since the war began because of mines and the danger of German U-boats in the Channel. ‘What on earth are you babbling on about, Joe?’ Ma asked. ‘We could take her to Dunkirk, help get those poor soldiers off the beach. She’s perfectly seaworthy and has a shallow draught. Just what they’re after.’ ‘You’d let the navy take her? Are you crazy? You might never see her again,’ Tom said. As far as he was concerned, the only service with any credibility was the air force. ‘Course not. We wouldn’t let them take her. We’d crew her ourselves.’ ‘Over my dead body, Joe Garrod.’ Ma stood to face him. ‘Sailing little Mary Ellen across the Channel under fire from the Luftwaffe and the German navy? With no guns, no protection, no nothing? You need your head examining.’ There was a knock at the front door. Lizzie went to answer. It was Brian, Pa’s close friend, a lifeboatman who sometimes crewed for