Memories Are Made of This

Table of Contents

A Selection of Recent Titles by June Francis

Title Page

Copyright

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

IT HAD TO BE YOU

SUNSHINE AND SHOWERS

PIRATE'S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE

THE UNCONVENTIONAL MAIDEN

MAN BEHIND THE FAÇADE

MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS *

 

 

* available from Severn House

 

 

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

    

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9 – 15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

Copyright © 2013 by June Francis.

The right of June Francis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Francis, June, 1941-

Memories are made of this.

1. Missing persons–Fiction. 2. World War, 1939-1945–

England–Liverpool–Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-383-9 (Epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8250-9 (cased)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

I would like to thank Kath Williams who was a police officer in Liverpool during the 1950s for her willingness to help me with my research, as well as Kate McNichol, the Force Records Manager of Merseyside Police, for assisting my son Iain to research background information. It was much appreciated. I'd also like to thank Elsie from swimming for the information she provided me with about her job in the Cunard Building. I would add that my characters and plot are purely the product of my imagination and any factual mistakes in police procedure are mine.

‘I never forget a face and I recognized your sort straightaway!' Ethel Ramsbottom ran a finger over the dust on the sideboard. ‘Look at this! You're not only a whore but a slut. I told George he was making a mistake marrying you. You're far too young for him,' she said stridently.

Grace Walker's slender body shook and in a voice stiff with outrage, she said, ‘This time you've gone too far, you're not running one of your prison landings now, you old bitch! In case you haven't noticed there's a bloody war on and a bomb dropped only yards from here last night. Everywhere's a mess. I've had enough to do today without worrying about a bit of dust. George has been far too tolerant of you, just because you're the last remaining link with his mother. Well, I've had enough! Since his first wife died you've made his kids' lives a misery. I'll tell you once and for all you're not going to do the same to our daughter. You can sling your hook! When I get back, I want you out of this house for good.'

Ethel's chest swelled with indignation. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a tone! You don't really care about our George or his kids. It's all pretence with you. All dollied up to go out! You've got a fancy man, haven't you?'

Grace's green eyes glinted. She was so incandescent with rage, she could not speak. She had to get out before she did something she would regret. Carefully picking up the shopping bag with the small cake inside, she went out into the lobby. Taking her coat from a hook on the wall with trembling fingers, she shrugged it on and took several deep breaths before opening the parlour door and poking her head inside. Her seventeen-year-old stepson, Sam, was standing over by the bay window, hands in the pockets of his grey flannels, gazing out.

She cleared her throat. ‘Sam, will you keep your ears open in case Jeanette wakes up? The raid last night unsettled her. I have to go out.'

‘OK,' he replied.

She thought his voice sounded strained and hesitated, wondering if she should tell him that Carol had called on them a couple of days ago and the old bitch had sent her packing. They'd had a row about that, too. But when he did not turn round and she caught sight of the time, she said, ‘Thanks!' and closed the door behind her.

As she left the house, her mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts, but uppermost was her determination that her four-year-old daughter would have a happy life without the restrictions and constant questioning that had plagued her own growing years. She would have that old besom out if she was still there when she returned.

Three hours later Grace was standing on the step of a house in Toxteth taking her farewell of an elderly friend when the air raid siren sounded. ‘Not again,' said the old lady huddled in the doorway. ‘Well, let them come. They won't get me,' she said in a high pitched voice.

Grace frowned. ‘You should go to the shelter, May.' Her fingers shook as she fastened a paisley headscarf over her light brown hair.

‘Don't yous be worrying about me, queen. The Lord takes care of His own. It's good of yous to remember me birthday and I really enjoyed the cake.'

‘It was a pleasure.' Grace's pretty features softened, and then she glanced up at the darkening sky, apprehension tightening her stomach. She imagined that she could already hear the drone of enemy aircraft in the distance. ‘I'd better make a move. I'm going to have to walk home.'

‘Yous have some distance to go, queen, and the bombs will be falling before you get there. Stay here! Yous'll be safe with me under the table. Proper oak that table is, belonged to me da! It's the same wood that built Nelson's navy.'

For several moments Grace dithered, wanting to get home to her daughter but scared of being caught out in the open. She remembered hearing tales of people running for cover and being targeted by the enemy. Perhaps she would be safe with May. Sam would take care of Jeanette, and George would not miss her. Being a policeman and the kind of man he was, he would be out all night because of the air raid. She chewed on her lip, thinking it was that old bitch Ethel's fault that had decided her not to leave her husband for the safety of the country-side. She had not been prepared to leave him and Sam prey to the old woman's poisonous tongue and strict regime. She thought of her ten-year-old stepdaughter, Hester, evacuated to a Lancashire village at the beginning of the war; at least she was well out of it. She grimaced. Too late now for second thoughts. She had to make the best of it. She took hold of May's arm and hustled her back inside the house.

‘Time for another cuppa, queen,' said May, shuffling into the kitchen.

‘I'll put the kettle on,' said Grace, assuming a cheerfulness that she did not feel.

‘And I'll put some cushions under the table,' said May, obviously delighted that the younger woman had decided to stay with her.

An hour later Grace was under the table with her back against one of the legs, cushioned by a pillow. She was trying to match her soprano voice to May's slightly off-key rendering of ‘The Lord's My Shepherd' in an attempt to drown out the sound of exploding bombs and gunfire. She thought,
I should have told Sam where I was going
, but it was too late now
.
She could only hope they would all come safely through this night. She had such a future planned for her daughter! Grace was still thinking of Jeanette when the bomb hit.

‘It's raining again,' said Jeanette Walker, dragging a headscarf from the pocket of her maroon-check swagger coat.

‘It's supposed to be bloody summer,' grumbled her workmate, Peggy, gazing at the glistening pavement outside the Odeon cinema. ‘It's getting dark already. I hope the weather improves before me, our Lil and Mam and Dad go to Butlin's next week.'

‘I wish I still had a mother instead of blinking Aunt Ethel! Your brothers not going?'

‘No, they think they're too old.'

‘I wish I could get away but I can't see it happening.' Jeanette flicked back her ponytail, and covered her light brown hair with the headscarf and knotted it at her throat. She would be lucky if she could manage a trip to New Brighton, what with her elderly aunt taking nearly every penny she earned. Her expression darkened at the thought of the old witch who had ruled the roost in the Walker household since Jeanette's mother had disappeared during the blitz. She sighed as she reached into a pocket and took out a paper bag. ‘I'm hungry and I bet if there is any tea saved for me, it'll be burnt to a crisp.' She took out a pear drop and handed the bag containing the last remaining sweet to Peggy.

‘Didn't you tell her you were going to the pictures straight from work?' Peggy popped the sweet into her mouth and shoved the paper bag in her pocket.

‘Yes of course! I told her when Dad was there or else she'd have made some excuse to prevent me from going. As it was she had a right face on her and it'll be the same when I get home. Unfortunately Dad's on duty this evening.' Jeanette felt a chill go down her spine at the thought of having to face her father's only aunt, and crunched on the pear drop. She hoped her half-sister, Hester, would still be up when she got home, so she wouldn't have to confront the old woman alone.

‘So what did you think of the film?' asked Peggy, turning up the collar of her coat and stepping onto the wet pavement.

‘
The Weak and the Wicked
,' muttered Jeanette, following her out. ‘At least it ended happily with our heroine saved by the love of a good man. Aunt Ethel doesn't agree with open prisons, though. She was once a prison wardress and is forever boasting about the efficiency with which her landings were run. Six of the best with the birch and solitary confinement on bread and water, that's what she'd prescribe.'

‘She wouldn't be alone in that for some crimes, but surely not for fraud,' said Peggy, coming to a halt at the kerb and glancing right and left. ‘Will she ask you about the film?'

‘Depends on her mood. If she leaves it until tomorrow and the rest of the family are in, there'll be a helluva discussion about sentencing and corporal and capital punishment.' Jeanette stepped backwards as a car came too close to the kerb, sending a spray of water their way.