The Lost Daughter of Liverpool

A heartbreaking and gritty family saga

Pam Howes

Books by Pam Howes

The Bryant Sisters

1. The Girls of Victory Street

2. Wedding Bells on Victory Street

3. The Mothers of Victory Street

4. The Daughters of Victory Street

The Lark Lane Trilogy

1. The Factory Girls of Lark Lane

2. The Shop Girls of Lark Lane

3. The Nurses of Lark Lane

4. The Midwives of Lark Lane

The Mersey Trilogy

1. The Lost Daughter of Liverpool

2. The Forgotten Family of Liverpool

3. The Liverpool Girls

Rock ’n’ Roll Romance Series

Three Steps to Heaven

’Til I Kissed You

Always on My Mind

Not Fade Away

That’ll be the Day

Fast Movin’ Train

Hungry Eyes

It’s Only Words

Audio

The Girls of Victory Street (Available in the UK and the US)

Wedding Bells on Victory Street (Available in the UK and the US)

The Mothers of Victory Street (Available in the UK and the US)

The Midwives of Lark Lane (Available in the UK and the US)

Dedicated to the memory of my much-missed, lovely friend, Geoff Barber. 1950–2015

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

The Forgotten Family of Liverpool

Pam Howes email sign up

Books by Pam Howes

Letter from Pam

The Girls of Victory Street

Wedding Bells on Victory Street

The Mothers of Victory Street

The Daughters of Victory Street

The Factory Girls of Lark Lane

The Shop Girls of Lark Lane

The Nurses of Lark Lane

The Midwives of Lark Lane

The Liverpool Girls

Acknowledgements

*

Chapter 1

Knowsley, Liverpool, July 1946

Dora Evans breathed a sigh of relief when the dinner-break bell rang out, gloriously loud and clear. Peace descended as the hum from twenty machines ceased, punctuated only by the loud voices of the factory girls as they dithered between eating in the canteen, or sitting outside on the grassy knoll at the back of Palmer’s factory with their pack-ups.

Dora and her friend Joanie Lees brought their dinner from home each day, except for Fridays, when it was their favourite Spam fritters and chips in the canteen. They hurried outside into the bright sunshine and sat down on the wall that skirted Old Mill Lane, just under the now-faded factory sign that boasted Palmer’s Ladies Fashions of Distinction. The decorative black and gold cast-iron railings that had previously graced the top of the sandstone wall had been removed a few years ago to be melted down to help the war effort. Now, wild flowers grew in their place, cascading down to the ground, giving the wall colour and a place for butterflies and bees to frequent.

These days, there were no distinctive fashions made at Palmer’s. At the beginning of the war, the factory had been commissioned to make uniforms for the troops and nurses. But since the war had ended and old Gerald Palmer had passed away, to be succeeded by his son-in-law, George Kane, who, according to the loyal workforce, hadn’t a clue about the rag-trade, the company had struggled to make ends meet. The only contracts so far this year were for men’s shirts that were sold in Littlewoods stores and catalogues.

Dora and Joanie had been classmates all through school and were best pals. Joanie was the only girl in her family and, with four younger brothers who drove her mad with their brawling and noisy games, had spent most of her childhood playing at Dora’s house, where they’d spend hours making dolly clothes from scraps of material that Dora’s mam had given them. The pair were as close as sisters and shared a special bond and all their secrets.

They’d joined Palmer’s in 1941 when they left school, just after their fifteenth birthdays. Both enjoyed working in the business, though they daydreamed about making pretty dresses and skirts, rather than spending all day stitching collars and cuffs onto shirts. The nearest they’d come to making any dresses at all had been the plain cotton ones that were sent out to the nurses serving abroad. Still, they’d been helping the war effort and it was a decent enough job. They were grateful for the training they’d received, and their supervisor said they were exceptional seamstresses.

‘What you got in your sarnies today?’ Dora asked, taking a greaseproof-wrapped package from her bag and smiling at the jam and margarine filling. She had two ginger nuts for afters too.

‘Dripping on toast, again.’ Joanie pulled a face.

‘Here, swap for half of mine, and give me half of yours.’

‘Thanks,’ Joanie said. Dora’s mam’s home-made bread and jam was always delicious.

The pair tucked in, enjoying the welcome warmth of the sun after being cooped up all morning. After they finished their dinner and shared a bottle of lukewarm corporation pop Dora had dug out of her bag, they dropped down onto the patch of grass below the wall to sunbathe. Dora hitched up her faded wrap-over pinny, exposing her bare legs slightly, and Joanie did likewise.

‘Look at my legs! What if Frank can’t get me any stockings for the wedding? We need to spend time on the beach at New Brighton to get some more sun on them,’ Dora said. ‘Might ask Joe if he’ll take me across on the ferry at the weekend.’

Dora was excited about marrying her fiancé, Joe Rodgers. They were teenage sweethearts and had always been inseparable at school, but then the war had forced them apart. After years of anxious days and nights, and love-letters that took months to arrive, Joe returned safely home. He’d immediately proposed, and Dora, who’d dreamed and hoped for that moment the whole time he’d been away, had accepted.

She knew she was lucky that her Joe had come home safe and sound from the war, and apart from being a lot skinnier, he hadn’t changed too much in his years away with the army. Several members of his platoon were never coming home, including young men from their village, who’d left behind heartbroken wives and girlfriends. For some, it wasn’t all Vera Lynn, bunting, and finger sandwiches on VE Day, as Dora’s mam reminded her whenever Dora got too carried away with her fancy plans for the big day.

She’d never have got through those long and lonely years without Joanie by her side, offering comfort when the postman didn’t bring a letter from Joe for weeks on end and she’d feared the worst, helping her to keep her spirits up, and always encouraging her to think positively.

‘Isn’t he playing with the band next weekend?’ Joanie asked, tucking a straying curl under her turban.

‘Yes, but only on Saturday this week.’ Dora smiled as she thought about how handsome Joe looked when he played the alto saxophone in Murphy’s Dance Band. He had been part of his regiment’s brass band, and when some of the lads had suggested forming a dance band after being demobbed, he’d been happy to join them. ‘Maybe he’ll take me on Sunday. You and I need to work on Saturday anyway, if we’re going to get the bridesmaids’ dresses finished.’

Dora’s own gown was hanging in the small wardrobe in her bedroom, covered by a sheet. White lace over taffeta with lace sleeves; made and designed by herself and Joanie, with some help from Mam. It was the type of dress she’d thought she could only ever dream of wearing, as fabric and money were in short supply.

Dora got to her feet and stretched. ‘Let’s go inside and grab a cuppa before it’s time to go back upstairs.’

In the canteen they collected two mugs from the trolley and joined some of their co-workers at a table near the window. Peggy, a girl with unruly red hair and a voice as loud as a Mersey foghorn, was flirting with Len, one of the packers, who’d rolled up his shirt sleeves and was flexing his muscles outside the open window in an attempt to impress her.

‘Call them muscles?’ she yelled as he raised an eyebrow. ‘Maude ’ere’s got bigger muscles than youse. Show ’im, Maude.’

The girls laughed as Maude, a plump girl in her late teens, rolled up her sleeves and flexed her muscles in his direction. ‘Beat that if you can,’ she said with a giggle.

‘How’s yer wedding plans coming along, Dora?’ Peggy asked, flicking cigarette ash onto the quarry-tiled floor. ‘Youse finished making yer dress yet?’

‘Yeah,’ Dora replied. ‘We’re onto the bridesmaids’ dresses now. They should be finished this weekend, and then we can relax a bit.’

‘Not long now, eh, gel? When is it, six weeks?’

‘End of August.’ Dora took a sip of her rapidly cooling tea.

‘And then yer freedom’ll be up the Swanee, queen; especially when a babby comes along. Have youse found anywhere to live yet?’

‘We’re staying with Joe’s mum for a while, until something else turns up,’ Dora said with a half-smile, thinking about her freedom or the lack of it once married. Starting a family wasn’t in her immediate plans, and the thought of living with Joe’s mother filled her with dread. She wasn’t the easiest woman to get along with and a bit over-possessive where her only son was concerned. She’d so far shown no real interest in the wedding plans either, which suited Dora and her mam, as they preferred to do it themselves. She wished there was room for her and Joe to live with her parents, but there wasn’t, so her future mother-in-law’s it had to be.

‘Right, gels, let’s get back to work.’ Peggy jumped to her feet and stubbed the end of her ciggie out. The workers were not allowed to smoke anywhere else in the factory. The bales of fabric and boxes of completed shirts piled up everywhere were deemed a fire hazard. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner it’ll be the next tea break.’

Dora swallowed the last of her brew and followed the other girls out of the canteen and up the wide wooden staircase to the first-floor workroom. She sat down on her chair next to a window overlooking farmland in the distance, and switched her machine back on. Joanie settled at her machine next to Dora’s. The box of shirt collars they were working on was sitting in front of them and they each reached out and grabbed the next collar in the batch.

‘There’s nothing more boring than this,’ Dora muttered. ‘No colour, no fancy bits, just plain old white. It’s driving me mad.’

‘Me too,’ Joanie agreed. ‘Chin up, girl. Just keep thinking of the future.’

The wireless played in the background, broadcasting the end of Workers’ Playtime with the show’s producer announcing his usual, ‘Good luck, all workers.’

‘Pity they never choose Palmer’s for a broadcast,’ Peggy shouted above the general hubbub. ‘Not much chance of that now though. It’s always one of them big London factories.’

Dora trimmed the thread and threw the collar back into the box, where it was picked up by Peggy, who snipped the corners, turned it inside out and passed it over to Maude for pressing. Dora sighed and reached for another. She hated piece-work and they never got to see the finished garment. There’d been a time, before war broke out, when their factory had been as busy as any in London, and the floor above them had also buzzed with the noise of machinery and happy workers. But that floor was now silent, closed except for storage, and only twenty of the factory’s forty machines were still in use.

Surely there would be a time in the not too distant future when money wouldn’t be as tight, and ladies would want to wear pretty dresses and smart suits again, and not just for church on a Sunday or to a dance. Dora thought of the bridesmaid dresses. If she and Joanie were to have any hope of starting up their own business they needed those dresses to be the talk of the town. At the moment it was just a pipedream; girls like her and Joanie didn’t own businesses anyway.

Chapter 2

Dora ignored the loud wolf-whistle from one of the packers as she and Joanie rode their bicycles out of the factory yard and turned onto Old Mill Lane.

‘Cheeky devil.’ Dora smiled as the gentle summer breeze blew her long honey-blonde hair around her face. She loved the feeling of release after it had been secured all day under her turban. Joanie still had her hair tucked inside hers, but her unruly curls were starting to stray and dangle down into her eyes. She stopped pedalling and rang her bell. Dora, a few yards in front, braked too and turned around. She laughed as Joanie whipped off the red and white checked scarf, shoved it into the basket on the front of her bike and ran her fingers through her mousey brown hair. Both girls chose not to wear the metal hair curlers that some of the factory girls had on under their turbans. There was no need – Dora’s hair was naturally wavy, and Joanie’s was a mass of corkscrew curls.

‘Freedom, eh?’ Dora said. ‘I hate that sweaty feeling; makes my scalp all itchy. You definitely coming over later?’ she asked as they set off up the lane again, riding side by side. ‘Then we can see about tea-dipping that lace our Frank got us. Hope it works, otherwise it’ll be ruined. And then what?’

‘It should be fine, and a nice contrast to the dress material,’ Joanie said.

When they reached the cottage on Sugar Lane, Dora’s dad was in the front garden. He doffed his cap at the girls and carried on weeding the flower beds.

‘See you ’bout seven,’ Joanie called as she went on her way to her home on nearby Knowsley Lane.

‘You okay, Dad?’ Dora climbed off her bike, parked it beneath the window of the terraced cottage and retrieved her handbag from the basket. ‘How’s your leg?’

‘Playing up a bit, chuck,’ Jim Evans said, turning towards his pretty daughter who looked so much like her mother, with her blonde hair, big blue eyes, trim figure and a wide smile. ‘Bloody shrapnel.’ He rubbed his thigh. ‘It’ll never be right, but at least I’ve still got it, not like poor Len down the road. And I’m quite capable of doing a bit of work, so I’m not grumbling.’ Poor young Len had lost both legs in Normandy at the D-Day Landings, but still managed a smile and a cheery wave when his mother pushed him out for a bit of fresh air each afternoon. Dora’s dad, who’d been stationed with the Home Guard, had lost part of his thigh muscle as well as breaking his leg in several places during a bomb blast in Liverpool in the Blitz. It had been touch and go, and although his leg was stiff with the metal pins holding it together and much weaker than before, he coped well enough. ‘Yer mam’s inside. I’ll be in meself in a few minutes when our Frank gets home. I’ll see he puts your bike in the shed, if you’ve finished with it for today.’

‘I have, thanks, Dad.’ She frowned as he turned back to his gardening, coughing and spluttering as he did so. His chest had never been right since the war, all that poison he’d breathed in during the horrendous fires of the Blitz on their city. But he was stubborn, refused to go to the doctor’s, and there was no point in arguing with him about it.

Dora let herself in and wiped her feet on the mat in the tiny vestibule, where the staircase, with its worn, red-patterned runner, held in place with old brass stair rods, rose steeply in front of her. She loved the little cottage she’d been born and brought up in and was glad that her dad was still able to do his gardening work at Knowsley Hall nearby. The rent-free cottage was tied to his job and it would break his heart if he lost it.

She pushed open the door to the front room, where her mam was resting on the sofa; feet encased in blue slippers and stretched out on the colourful rag rug. In spite of the open window, the room felt stifling as Dora walked in, the range in the exposed brick chimney breast still glowing from an earlier fire. Mam used the side ovens for bread-making, and Monday was always her baking day, so the whole house would feel like a furnace tonight. It was cosy on cold winter days when fingers of ice clung to the windows and the heat rose up the chimney to the rooms above, but a nightmare in the warmer months of the year. Mam’s eyes were closed and her glasses had slipped down her nose. Unusual for her to take forty winks, Dora thought, especially at tea time when they’d all be coming in from work, Dad from his part-time gardening and her brother Frank from his labouring job down at the docks.

Mam had been born into quite a well-to-do family in Hoylake. Dora had never met her maternal grandparents. She’d been told that her grandmother had fallen on hard times following the death of her husband during the First World War, and she’d passed away not long after the war ended. Mam had met Dad when she’d come to work in service at Knowsley Hall, needing a job and a roof over her head, and they’d married soon after. She’d managed to hold on to her gentle Cheshire accent and had instilled in her children a nice way of speaking. Dora had often been teased at school for sounding posh, but was glad now that she could adapt her way of speaking to suit any situation, although her older brother Frank’s accent had strong overtones of guttural Liverpudlian. He’d told their mam he couldn’t do posh in front of the dockers, he’d be laughed out of town.

Dora shook her gently by the shoulder. ‘Mam, Mam, it’s me. Are you okay?’

Mary Evans opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I wasn’t asleep, chuck, just resting my eyes. I’ve been on my feet all day.’ She struggled upright. ‘Come and see what I got today.’

Dora followed her into the kitchen at the back of the cottage. On the scrubbed pine table stood the fruits of her mam’s labours: a few plain scones, enough small loaves for the week and a Victoria sponge, sandwiched together with jam made from hedgerow blackberries and apples from her dad’s wartime Dig for Victory efforts. Most back gardens had been turned over to growing vegetables and fruit for the families and her mam had taught Dora how to feed an army on scraps. Nothing ever got wasted in their household. There was always a decent meal after a long day at work, even if it was just a meatless stew, like today’s Blind Scouse.

Mam picked up a brown paper bag from the table and opened it. Inside were a good handful of glacé cherries, fat raisins and chopped walnuts.

Dora gasped. They had a bag of currants in the pantry that Frank had brought home a few months ago, which they’d been saving towards the wedding cake. Her dad’s chickens would provide the eggs, which were so much nicer than using the powdered substitute that tasted nothing like the real thing. They’d been saving up their sugar rations, Dora and her mam substituting connie-onnie for sugar in their tea and porridge. The meagre butter rations had been eked out, so there was just enough with this week’s supply for the cake. Frank and his mate had commandeered a sack of flour down at the docks.

‘How did you get these?’ Dora asked.

‘Joanie’s mam gave them to me,’ Mam said, tapping the side of her nose. ‘She did a favour for Cook last week. I gave her a couple of loaves in exchange.’

Dora smiled. Their mams had met when they both worked at Knowsley Hall. Joanie’s mam was a part-time housekeeper there, and was friendly with Cook, who nearly always paid for a favour with a bit of food.

‘That’s really kind of her,’ Dora said. ‘We’ll have the best wedding cake this village has tasted for years.’

‘We’ll have the best wedding, never mind cake,’ her mam declared. ‘In fact, it’s the first wedding since the lads came home. Well, apart from Sadie Jones’s rush-job.’ She folded her arms, lips pursed.

Dora thanked God she’d managed to keep Joe’s amorous advances at bay. She thought back to last Thursday night’s dance at the village hall when he’d walked her home and they’d taken a short cut through the nearby woods. They’d stopped to kiss beneath a large oak tree, fuelled by a couple of drinks. It was getting harder to say no when his kisses were so passionate and demanding. She felt she deserved a medal for her efforts in restraint. She loved him so much and was desperate to belong to him, but she wouldn’t cause her mam and dad any grief now, even with Joe’s little diamond ring on her finger. They’d just have to be patient for a few more weeks. Their pals, Sadie and Stan, had been so relieved to be back together following his safe return from Egypt that they couldn’t wait, and were now the proud parents of a beautiful baby.

The front room door opened and Frank and Dad walked in. Mam shook her head as they trod dried mud onto her spotless, varnished floorboards. ‘How many times have I told you two to use the back door? Look at the state of my floor now.’

Frank winked at Dora as she made to escape up the stairs. He dug into the old army rucksack in which he carried his dinnertime sarnies and bottle of tea, and pulled out a jar of brown gloopy stuff. ‘Got this today.’

‘What is it?’ Dora asked, frowning.

‘Molasses. Sugary treacle for the cake. It’ll give it colour and help sweeten it too. A cask split down the docks and a bloke said it was good for cakes.’

Mam took hold of the jar and stared at the contents with a suspicious eye. ‘Where did the jam-jar come from?’

‘A fella on board ship. And yes, I washed it, before you ask. He kept his maggots in it for fishing,’ he teased, ducking as Mam reached out and clipped him around the ear.

‘Ouch! I’m joking. It’s clean, I promise you.’ He laughed and gave her a hug, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘Right, if nobody needs the carsey, I’m off down the garden.’ He tucked the Liverpool Echo under his arm and strolled out of the kitchen.

‘Don’t take all night,’ Mam called after him. ‘I’ll be dishing up in a few minutes.’

Dora sat down on her narrow bed in the large front bedroom she shared with Frank, a curtained partition hung down the middle to give them some privacy, and she fingered the length of lace that he’d brought home last week. If they tinted it with leftover tea it should end up the perfect colour to trim the edges of the sleeves of the bridesmaids’ dresses.

The dresses were cut from a bolt of pale green silk that Frank told her came from France, along with the leftover white lace and taffeta that her own dress had been made from. He said he’d got it at a good price from a merchant who supplied the more exclusive draperies in Liverpool city centre. She hadn’t questioned the fact that the material had arrived on his back, on the motorbike, bundled up in an old, but thankfully clean hessian sack, rather than in the fancy paper a receiving draper would expect to see… and it had a peculiar odour that she’d tried not to put a name to. But once her mam took charge and cut it into lengths, a few days of hanging outside in the garden in a nice fresh breeze had lifted the smells. The leftover fabric had been cut into strips to dress the village hall with swags and bows that would be decorated with some of her dad’s pretty summer flowers. Her bouquet would be cut from Dad’s prize pink rose bush too, and tied up with white ribbons.

Joe had his navy pinstripe demob suit to wear for the wedding and a white shirt and navy tie, and he’d managed to arrange for Murphy’s Dance Band to play. Dora knew it was going to be a day to remember.

All the scrimping and scraping and planning and organising was coming together. She was lucky that she could turn her hand to anything with a sewing needle, and had even made the rest of her trousseau from some parachute silk her brother had brought home. French knickers and a camisole for under the wedding dress; and a pretty nightdress for the honeymoon, trimmed with ribbon and white lace. Her friend Agnes had found a lovely blue garter in a gift shop and had given it to her for her last birthday. All she needed now were stockings, fine silk ones, if possible, and Frank was on the look-out for those. Hopefully there’d be no need for the usual gravy-browned legs with a seam drawn up the back.

Her mam said she’d wager a bet that not even the Princess Elizabeth would look as nice as Dora on her wedding day. As far as she knew, the princess and her fiancé, Philip, hadn’t set a date yet. She and Joe had beaten them to it for the wedding of the year.

Joanie moved the poncher up and down in the dolly tub where the lace was steeping.

Dora brought two cups of tea outside and tipped what was left in the pot into the tub. ‘Mam said we can’t have any more tonight or she’ll have no tea ration left for the rest of the week.’ She dashed back inside and brought out a small plate with a scone split in half and spread with jam. The girls sat down on a couple of old deckchairs by the back door and enjoyed their supper in the warm evening air. The scent from nearby flowers and a neighbour’s freshly cut grass wafted over them in the gentle breeze. It was a pleasure to enjoy the garden again without the sounds of planes droning overhead, air-raid sirens, and the bombings in Liverpool centre, followed by the stench of burning, and the feeling of overwhelming fear. Sitting night after night with her mam and the neighbours in the nearby Anderson shelters during the blackouts, she’d felt that the war would never end and she wouldn’t see her beloved Joe or her dad and brother again.

‘Sorry there’s no butter, it’s been saved for the cake,’ Dora apologised, pushing thoughts of the war away. It was bad enough waking in a cold sweat at night on occasion, without the memories invading a peaceful evening.

Joanie licked the jam from her fingers. ‘Your mam’s scones are a treat, no matter what’s on them. They’re even better than Cook’s up at the hall. It’s nice that your mam’s doing the wedding buffet.’

Dora nodded, pushing the last morsel of scone into her mouth. ‘It is. And Dad’s grown loads of stuff for salads,’ she said, pointing to a makeshift greenhouse near the bottom of the garden where tomatoes and cucumbers were growing. ‘And over there, he’s got spring onions, lettuce and radish. We’re so lucky he’s green-fingered. I’m really excited, I can’t wait.’

Joanie laughed. ‘Bet you can’t. And I bet Joe can’t either.’

Dora rolled her eyes, feeling her cheeks warming. ‘Well yeah, but you know it’s for different reasons. I want to walk up the aisle like a princess, and Joe’s desperate for the honeymoon! Typical man.’ They both laughed and turned their attention back to the lace, which was taking on a dark creamy hue. ‘Shall we rinse it now? It’s been steeping for long enough and we don’t want it to go orange. We’ll dry it on the line and then sew it to the sleeves tomorrow night.’

Joanie smiled. ‘Once the village women see what we’ve made, they’ll all want something. I reckon we could get out of Palmer’s and work for ourselves by next year.’

‘Me too,’ Dora said. It hadn’t been too bad during the war when they felt they were helping the war effort in their own little way. But now, well maybe it really was the right time to try something new. ‘As soon as I’m back from my honeymoon we’ll put a card in the paper shop window, and maybe one on the notice board in the village hall, see what happens. Joe will be working a couple of nights a week with the band, so it will give me something to do. We need every penny we can save for our own place. I really don’t want to live with Joe’s mum for too long. Can you imagine? She’ll be listening to every little noise we make.’

Joanie laughed and her cheeks flushed slightly. ‘Where’s your Frank tonight?’ She lifted the lace from the tub, not quite meeting Dora’s eye as she squeezed out the excess tea.

‘Out for a drink with his mates, but he said he’d be back early enough to walk you home.’

‘I’ll be fine walking back on my own. He doesn’t need to spoil his night out.’ Joanie blushed a deeper shade of pink. She went inside, dropped the lace into the sink and turned on the tap to rinse it.

Dora smiled as she followed her. ‘He enjoys walking you home, you know that. He’s not bothered about leaving his mates early. Anyway, I thought you liked him, I mean, really liked him?’ Dora knew Frank was sweet on Joanie and she wished her friend would admit she felt the same. But apart from walking her home from the dances at the village hall and on nights when she came over to help with the sewing, Frank was yet to ask Joanie on a date.

‘Um, yes, I do…’ Joanie muttered, bundling the lace into a chipped enamel bowl. ‘There, all done. You can peg it out now.’

‘Stop changing the subject! You could do worse than our Frank.’

‘I’m not really looking for a boyfriend.’

‘Well he’s looking for you; you know he is, so think about it. Then maybe we could go out on double dates.’ She winked at Joanie in encouragement.

Dora knew her friend was shy and she was hoping the wedding would be the right time to get them together. With a few drinks and romance in the air, Joanie might just respond to her brother’s charms. Frank was a good-looking lad with his big blue eyes and shock of blond hair; they really would be the perfect match.

Joanie stumbled and caught the heel of her shoe in a rut on the dirt pavement. She held her breath as Frank reached out and grabbed her arm to save her falling head-first into the road. It was dark on the lanes and he’d borrowed the lamp from Dora’s bike to light their way. As he shone the light into her face and smiled, she felt the flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

‘Whoops!’ He grinned. ‘Better hold my hand. Don’t want you breaking your neck or our Dora’ll never forgive me.’

She looked away from his teasing blue eyes as his hand gripped hers and he pulled her along. She really liked Frank, but was never sure if he was serious or just messing around. In spite of Dora telling her that he enjoyed walking her home, she wouldn’t allow herself anything beyond a daydream that his feelings for her were more than just friendship.

The tiny terraced cottage where she lived with her family came into view, the upstairs windows ablaze with light, and she tried to pull her hand away in case one of her brothers was peeping through the curtains, but Frank held on tight and gave hers a squeeze.

‘Are you coming to ours tomorrow night?’ he asked as they drew level with the gate.

‘Probably.’ She nodded. ‘We’ve got to sew the lace on the sleeves.’ She could feel her cheeks heating as he looked at her and she glanced towards the front door to avoid staring into his eyes. ‘I’d better go in. Mam will wonder what’s keeping me.’ Why did he make her feel like such a blushing, dithering wreck in his presence? He’d never ask her out at this rate and he probably still thought of her as his little sister’s friend whose pigtails he used to pull.

He lifted her hand and dropped a kiss on the back. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

Joanie stared after his retreating back and raised her hand as he turned on the corner and waved. She sighed and hurried up the garden path. No doubt Frank had plenty of girls after him, with more sophistication about them than she had. He was always out with his mates, so wouldn’t be short of admirers. Ah well, there was always tomorrow.

With her parents in bed, Dora had a strip-wash in the kitchen. She slipped her nightdress over her head and put a pan of milk on the stove to boil. She’d make a jug of cocoa for when Frank got back from walking Joanie home. Mam and Dad always went to bed early, and on nights when she wasn’t seeing Joe, she loved the half hour before bedtime, chatting in the kitchen with her brother. He made her laugh with his tales of dockside labouring. It was a hard job, but he seemed to enjoy the camaraderie.

Frank was a clever lad and never one to miss a trick. He’d passed the eleven plus exam, but with no spare money to buy him a uniform and books, he’d forgone the opportunity to go to the grammar school. He’d never borne their hard-up parents a grudge for his missed education, but as soon as he could he left school and joined the army to see the world, and then war broke out. Since being demobbed he’d gone straight to the docks, even though Joe told him he should try to get a job at the Royal Ordnance Factory in Kirkby, where Joe had been employed since his demob. But Frank said he’d stay where he was. He’d heard rumours that the ROF would soon be closing now the war was over. No need for munitions factories any more.

Dora really hoped he was wrong about that, because Joe needed the job, and had told her that once they were married, he’d be eligible to apply for one of the prefab bungalows built for the workers. It would be a dream come true to have a home to call their own, and the space to set up a proper dressmaking business.