9781405958660

Wartime on Sanctuary Lane

Kirsty Dougal has a background in advertising and now runs her own consultancy. Over the past 25 years, she has interviewed the Great British public on everything from Rolos to razors. Kirsty also writes WW 1 sagas as Poppy Cooper; The Post Office Girls and A Post Office Christmas and contemporary fiction as Kirsten Hesketh.

Married with a son and daughter and two exceptionally fluffy moggies, Kirsty is also a keen amateur archaeologist and loves to spend her weekends on a local Roman dig. She loves walking and is a staunch supporter of Wycombe Wanderers –  especially when they are winning! Kirsty lives in Oxfordshire.

You can find Kirsty on Twitter: @kirsten_hesketh

Wartime on Sanctuary Lane

kirsty dougal

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To John, Tom, Charlotte, Oscar, and Ozzie with all my love.

And in loving memory of Silas-Slink, Max, Sandy, Kerry, Honey, and Kiera. All very good boys and girls.

Dear Reader

I hope you enjoy this first book in the Sanctuary Lane series. I’ve loved researching and writing it – and I’m so excited to share the adventures of Ruby and her friends and family with you all.

I am fascinated by the idea of ordinary people living through extraordinary times and, for me, there is nothing more extraordinary than World War I. Whilst the ‘war to end all wars’ was obviously horrific in very many ways, it was also a time of great social and economic change; new horizons opened, and women in particular were given opportunities that they could previously only have dreamed of. Throw patriarchy and class division into the mix and there is no more exciting time to write about. I’ve set the story in the East End as, in many ways, the working class had both the most to gain and the most to lose from the war, and I’ve tried to reflect that in Ruby’s story.

My paternal grandfather, Joseph ‘George’ Biggs, served in France as a teenager. He never talked about his experiences but, at the end his life, he was apparently right back in those trenches, hiding from the shells. That haunted me and taught me, more than anything, what the young men in the Great War endured and how it must never, ever be forgotten. On the other hand, my maternal grandmother, Maria Wildermuth, was brought up in the East End of London and was a teenager during the First World War. Her tales of hardship and loss and her general stoicism and

‘make do and mend’ attitude helped to inspire this story, as did her German surname and heritage and the challenges and difficulties that that presented.

Ruby, her family, and friends – both two- and fourlegged – and her animal hospital are all fictional, but the descriptions of the East End, the munitions factory and the wider events in World War I are as accurate as I could make them. The Brunner Mond factory really existed and was destroyed in an explosion in early 1917; its main role was to purify TNT – although information on whether it also assembled the shells and their detonators is more ambiguous. And, it seems, women really did have to ‘drop skirts’ at some of these factories! The Zeppelin raids are real, although I have tweaked the date of one. And, most importantly, the animals really were suffering; most of the vets were at the front, and poor people couldn’t afford their services anyway. As such, there are several examples of small animal hospitals and clinics being founded in the East End around this time, chief amongst which being the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals, which was founded a year or two later than this story is set – and which, of course, still exists today.

I thoroughly enjoyed developing the characters in this book and their journeys against the backdrop of such a turbulent part of our history. I hope you grow to love them as much as I do and that you will come back to discover what happens to them and the animal hospital as the war progresses.

Kirsty x

Prologue

1905

Ruby crouched in the bushes, heart thumping. She was well hidden here, the only way through the dense foliage a small gap on the river side. The others would take ages to find her. She settled on to the damp earth, spreading her skirts, surveying her hiding place. The leaves were still trembling from the morning’s rain. There was a little spider eyeing her from the tatters of its web; she must have broken the delicate threads as she crawled in. Sorry, little spider.

Oh, no.

What was that?

Running footsteps. Closer now. Ruby held her breath. Too soon . . . far too soon.

‘Found you!’

Darn. It was her older brother, Harry. How on earth had he found her so quickly? He was twelve and usually too old for hide and seek and he didn’t know the park nearly as well as she did. But here he was, crawling in and settling the leaves a-rustle again. He grinned at her, merry brown eyes a-sparkle, a leaf atop his dark, curly hair.

‘Careful,’ whispered Ruby, shuffling up and pointing at the spider. It was dangling from the end of a new thread, its work destroyed for the second time in as many minutes.

Harry shrugged. ‘It’s only a spider,’ he mouthed back, sitting down beside her. ‘And stop talking. The others are coming.’

The two children sat silently as the footsteps outside their hiding place grew ever closer. But these footsteps were too heavy and slow to belong to any of the children they were playing with. And, heavens, what was that noise ? High-pitched screams; plaintive, desperate . . .

A man came into view, striding towards the river. He was tall and thickset, his cap pulled down low over his face. There was a large brown sack over his shoulder, moving with a life of its own. And from its depths came the most heart-tugging cries. They sounded exactly like their younger brother Charlie as a baby had done . . .

‘It’s babies,’ she hissed to Harry. ‘There are babies in that bag.’

Harry’s eyes met hers, round and wide in horror.

They watched as the man crossed the grass, vaulted the low stone wall and disappeared. Ruby was out of the bushes in a trice, blinking in the light, brushing down her dress. Harry appeared beside her.

‘Found you!’ shouted one of their playmates from somewhere behind them.

‘Shhh!’ hissed Ruby and Harry, without turning around.

As one, they ran to the wall just in time to see the man wade out over the mudflats and splash up to his knees in the gunmetal water. Then, without ceremony, he swung the bag off his shoulder and in a wide arc into the Thames. There was a loud splash before the bag billowed across the surface and slowly began to sink. The cries grew in volume but the man didn’t turn around. He waded back

through the water and across the mud further downstream, over towards the Brunner Mond factory. If he saw the children, now crouched behind the wall, he didn’t acknowledge them.

Ruby waited until the man had disappeared round the bend. Then she climbed over the wall –  just as the other children skidded to halt beside her. Hitching up her skirts, she set out across the mud. It oozed over her boots, sticky and unforgiving, slowing her down.

‘Ruby,’ yelled one. ‘Don’t.’

‘You’ll drown!’ shouted another.

‘You’ll get your dress all wet and muddy,’ added Harry in a quieter voice.

Ruby ignored them all. She ploughed on, keeping her eyes on the exact spot in the water where the bag was disappearing. And here was Harry, appearing without ceremony by her side. Together they splashed into the water, slipping and sliding on the stones and in the mud. The water was icy cold, tugging at Ruby’s dress, weighing her down . . .

Hurry.

Must hurry.

‘Here. It was here,’ panted Ruby.

She reached into the water, fingers straining for the coarse material. It was much heavier than it had looked. Harry helped her lug it clear of the water and together they struggled back to the bank. Then, with shaking fingers, they untied the thick canvas knot.

The bag contained kittens – two black, one ginger, one tabby.

‘It’s not babies,’ said Harry dismissively. ‘It’s just cats.’

Ruby didn’t answer. The kittens were still and quiet and, for a horrible, heart-searing moment, she feared that she had been too late. Then, to her exquisite relief, three of the little bodies began to wriggle and mew. Only the tabby –  the smallest and presumably the runt of the litter – didn’t stir.

Ruby crouched down beside them all, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Who cared if they were cats and not babies? They had feelings. They would have known what was about to happen.

And they would have been terrified.

She scooped up the three living kittens, trying to dry them with her dress, whilst hastily formulating a plan. They would bury the poor runt with dignity right here on the foreshore and she would carry the rest to a stray cat she knew had recently given birth near the Brunner Mond factory.

It was all she could do.

‘Ruby. Your dress!’

Ruby glanced down at herself. Her pleated cotton Sunday-best with its pretty purple flowers was covered in thick brown river sludge.

And they all knew what that meant.

‘I’m proud of you, Ruby.’

Ruby blinked. That made no sense at all. Her father was about to beat her. He’d just beaten Harry and now it was her turn to bend over the arm of the parlour chair.

Ruby’s father followed her gaze to the strap in his hand. ‘Necessary, I’m afraid, for ruining your Sunday clothes,’ he said. ‘But trying to rescue those kittens? That were spirited.’

Really?

Now didn’t seem to be the time to ask her father how she should have attempted the very brave rescue without getting her clothes all wet and muddy. Should she have taken her dress and apron off? Gone into the river in her drawers? It was almost funny . . .

Except it wasn’t.

Her father indicated her forwards and Ruby duly assumed the position.

She heard the strap whistle down and, a second later, a line of fire exploded across her bottom. Five more – and an extra one if she cried out. How on earth could she stand it? She bit her lip. Harry hadn’t made a sound when it was his turn – and she wouldn’t either.

Besides, the sting of the strap was worth it.

Worth it because she had managed to save three of the kittens who, hopefully, would live to fight another day.

And worth it because she now knew, once and for all, that even a working-class girl from the East End of London could make a difference if she followed her convictions and instincts.

That was something she would never, ever let herself forget.

Hampstead, London

March 1916

The back doorbell rang just as Ruby started to lay the dining room table.

More deliveries.

She smoothed down her wavy, honey hair as best she could and nipped down the stairs to the back entrance of the mansion block. Elsie from Number 8 was already there, leaning against the doorjamb, watching Mrs Henderson’s flowers being unloaded in the pouring rain. Elsie always seemed to be there – regardless of whether she was expecting a delivery – waiting to make eyes at the delivery boys. Ruby nearly laughed out loud when she saw that this particular delivery ‘boy’ was actually a girl.

‘Another soirée?’ asked Elsie, as Ruby signed for the order.

Ruby understood the implication all too well. With the country at war, parties and soirées were unpatriotic. Extravagance was unpatriotic. Everyone knew that. There were posters all over London encouraging people to cut back and to do their bit. But regardless of what Ruby personally thought about the matter –  and actually she had given it a great deal of thought –  it wouldn’t do to speak ill of Mr and Mrs Henderson. Elsie wasn’t the most

discreet of people and Ruby didn’t want anything getting back to them.

Not until she had decided what she was going to do.

So, she just said, ‘You can’t eat flowers,’ smiled politely at Elsie and headed back upstairs with her armfuls of sweet peas and roses.

The preparations for that evening were in full swing.

War or no war, the Hendersons were hosting a dinner party for some of Mr Henderson’s business associates. Ruby quite liked soirées –  they were a welcome break from the everyday – but, goodness, they didn’t half add to the workload. Unlike many households, the Hendersons still had a cook, and, even more luckily, Mrs Henderson had called Agnes in today. Agnes usually only came in on a Monday to help with the washing and to do the windows, but she was already in the scullery making a start on the spuds while Cook wrestled with the leg of lamb. But even with Cook and Agnes sorting the food, there was still a great deal to do and Mrs Henderson would make her feelings abundantly clear if Ruby fell behind on her own allotted list of tasks. There was no time to waste, so she quickly but carefully carried the Chinese vases into the kitchen to make a start on the flowers.

‘I’d be quite looking forward to tonight if “he” weren’t coming,’ she commented to Cook as she filled each vase with water.

‘He’, of course, was Sir Emrys. Most of Mr Henderson’s clients weren’t too bad; dreadfully dreary and impossibly la-di-da, of course, but they kept their hands to themselves. Sir Emrys was different. Horribly different. Just about every time Ruby proffered him a serving

platter, he would run one leisurely hand up her leg; up and up until it was almost cupping her bottom. And Ruby just had to stand there, holding the blasted dish steady and with a pleasant smile on her face. Every time it happened, she marvelled that Mr and Mrs Henderson didn’t say anything. That Sir Emrys’ wife didn’t say anything. Surely, they all knew. Surely, if nothing else, Ruby’s flaming cheeks always gave the game away . . .

Cook, inserting garlic and rosemary slivers into the leg of lamb, straightened up and tucked a few stray wisps of sandy hair back under her cap. ‘If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard you say that,’ she said, not unsympathetically. ‘You’re twenty-one years old and you’ve got to learn to stand up to these people. Otherwise, Sir-BleedingEmrys ain’t got no reason to stop grabbing your arse, has he?’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ wailed Ruby, as she started to snip the bottom leaves off the roses. ‘Scream blue murder? Slap him? Oh, it’s perfectly fine for you and Agnes to laugh –  there ain’t no one trying to pinch your bottoms in here.’

‘I’d like to see them try,’ muttered Cook with a grin. ‘I’d have their guts for garters before you could say Jack Robinson.’

Ruby smothered a smile. She didn’t doubt that Cook would be as good as her word. Cook rarely had anything nice to say about Mr or Mrs Henderson – or anyone from the upper classes, for that matter –  and her manner towards them was habitually just short of surly. Ruby had a sneaking feeling that Mrs Henderson was a little bit afraid of her, as were they all; Cook was hot-headed,

quick-tempered, and certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly. But, despite all that –  and despite the fact that the two were a generation apart –  Ruby was very fond of Cook. She was certainly the closest Ruby had to a friend at the Hendersons’ and their sense of loyalty and camaraderie had only grown since the war had started and thrown everything up into the air.

‘At least you’ll get to meet Clara Williams,’ said Agnes, poking her freckled face in from the scullery. ‘I reckon it’ll be worth getting your arse pinched black and blue just to hear her sing.’

‘Almost,’ agreed Ruby, fanning the roses out prettily in their vases.

Her dread of the imminent arrival of the repulsive Sir Emrys was slightly offset by the evening’s guest of honour. Clara Williams was not only a second cousin of Mrs Henderson but she was also a famous singer. Mrs Williams had sung for King George, and King Edward before him, and even for Queen Victoria. Ruby’s mother loved Clara Williams; she had once seen her at a concert to raise money for the soldiers at the People’s Palace and hadn’t stopped going on about it for months. And now Ruby was going to meet her! She had already polished Mrs Williams’ cutlery until she could see her dark-blonde hair under its snowy cap reflected back in each piece . . .

‘A word please, Ruby,’ said Cook, once Agnes had retreated and Ruby had nearly finished arranging the sweet peas in amongst the roses.

‘One tick,’ said Ruby, picking up a vase. Cook was bound to want to give her more advice on handling ‘him’, but Ruby knew she’d never have the audacity to carry any

of it through. ‘I’d better get these flowers in position before Mrs H gets back from her walk.’

She took the first vase, manhandled it into the drawing room and carried the second one into the dining room overlooking Hampstead Heath.

‘Not done in here yet, Ruby?’

It was Mrs Henderson, long, thin face radiating disapproval. She was clutching armfuls of ivy, her terrier Boniface at her heels. A trail of leaves and muddy pawprints followed in her wake.

Ruby bobbed a little curtsey. ‘Nearly finished, Ma’am,’ she replied.

She would, she reflected, be a lot more ‘nearly finished’ if she now didn’t have to sweep and mop the floor all over again. Why oh why hadn’t Mrs Henderson taken both the ivy and Boniface straight to the kitchen? It would have been the sensible and the considerate thing to do, but Mrs Henderson had never shown herself to be overly endowed with either quality. Not that it was Boniface’s fault, of course. Ruby adored the terrier and she knew the feeling was mutual. Boniface was, even now, looking at her with his head on one side and Ruby fancied that he was trying his best to apologise for the extra work.

Still, with the table all laid up, the dining room really did look beautiful. Like the drawing room, it looked directly over the ponds and meadows of Hampstead Heath and it was hard to remember that they were only a few miles from the centre of London. Aside from their wonderful, open views –  dull and misty as they might be on this dreary day – both rooms were papered in the modern ivories and creams. With electric lights throughout the house,

there was no need to mask the soot stains as they had to in the East End. Everything looked fresh and clean because everything was fresh and clean.

Even Mrs Henderson seemed charmed by it all.

‘Even if we have to cut back on food nowadays, at least Jerry can’t stop us using our best china and silver,’ she said, running her finger over one of the side plates.

Ruby found it hard to suppress her smile. Oyster soufflé, lamb with anchovies and several other courses might be Mrs Henderson’s idea of cutting back –  but most of London couldn’t contemplate such a meal regardless of whether they were trying to be patriotic. She had overheard Cook saying the lamb had cost ten shillings! Ten shillings! Back in the day, Ma had to run her entire household – rent and all – on about a pound a week.

‘I’ve picked some ivy from the Heath to make the flowers go further,’ Mrs Henderson was saying. ‘I wanted to order more but the florists were out of stock. You’ll need to redo those vases. Come along. Spit spot!’

By the time the guests were gathered in the drawing room after dinner at ten o’clock that evening, Ruby was exhausted. Proper right-through-to-your-bones exhausted. Too exhausted to appreciate Clara Williams seated at the piano and singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘When Tommy Comes Marching Home’. Too exhausted to be concerned that the gentlemen were saying Britain had merely been marking time in the war and that efforts needed to be stepped up. Too exhausted even to be relieved that an unusually subdued Sir Emrys had kept his hands to himself all evening.

Thank goodness Agnes was doing the washing-up.

Ruby started circling the room with a pot of coffee and a jug of cream. Two of the wives were perched on the turquoise sofa together, deep in conversation. They didn’t look up as Ruby approached.

‘I hear Cook is off,’ one was saying. ‘No notice, of course. Off to join the police, of all things.’

Ruby concentrated very hard on not splashing the coffee.

It didn’t have to mean Cook.

‘Fanny’s devastated,’ the other woman replied. ‘But it might be a blessing in disguise. Those oyster soufflés were very heavy.’

Ruby’s arm shook involuntarily as she finished pouring the coffee. Mrs Henderson’s first name was Fanny and the soufflés had looked uncharacteristically on the stodgy side tonight . . .

Shocked, stunned, Ruby hurried out of the room, not much caring what it looked like to the guests. Cooks were leaving households all over London, of course –  Ruby knew that. They were off to ‘do their bit’, enticed by new opportunities and larger wage packets . . .

But she simply hadn’t reckoned on Cook joining their ranks that evening. Her only ally; upping and offing and leaving her in the lurch!

One thing was for certain; the police would be lucky to have Cook.

A glance at Cook’s face and Ruby saw that it was true.

‘I tried to tell you earlier,’ said Cook, filling up the coffee pot. ‘To be honest, I only found out today that I’d been accepted.’

‘I know you did,’ said Ruby. ‘And then we both got swept up in all the preparations. But –  oh, Cook. I will really miss you. And who’s going to do the cooking now?’

Cook gave an elaborate shrug. ‘Buggered if I know,’ she said. ‘It’s a topsy-turvy world out there nowadays and I’ll not lie; they’ll find it hard enough to replace me. I reckon Mrs H will have you knocking up a roux before the month’s up.’

Ruby had an uncontrollable urge to laugh. She put her sleeve over her mouth to drown her giggles.

Her?

Do the cooking?

Cook was taking off her apron. ‘By the way, love, young Agnes has got a terrible headache and I’ve sent her off home. I’ve left the worst of the dishes soaking and I’ll be in at midday tomorrow, but until then, I’m afraid it’s all down to you.’

The urge to laugh disappeared and suddenly Ruby was on the verge of tears. She was tired. So very tired. And the washing-up would take hours.

And then the kitchen door burst open.

‘There you are,’ Mrs Henderson hissed at Ruby. ‘I knew I’d find you malingering in here. Sir Emrys is asking for more coffee. Now!’

Ruby picked up the coffee pot. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she said.

‘And when you’re tidying up, don’t you dare touch any of the leftover lamb,’ Mrs Henderson called after her retreating back. ‘ That’s all for Boniface.’

Ruby slunk back into the drawing room.

Clara was still at the piano, leading a rousing rendition

of ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. Voices rose and fell and twisted around each other and suddenly Ruby wanted to cry for quite a different reason. She wanted to cry for the whole mad world and especially for her brother Harry who had recently been conscripted into the 47th (London) Division and who might never come home –  no matter how brightly the home fires burned.

Ruby tiptoed around the room, offering coffee, topping up cups. As she bent over to fill up Sir Emrys’ cup, she suddenly felt his meaty hand on her thigh. It paused and then leisurely moved higher until it was resting right on her bottom.

Impotent rage surged through Ruby. What could she do? A girl like her didn’t have choices. She was a nobody, a dogsbody, unfit even to eat the leftover meat.

But then she heard Cook’s voice in her ear and another thought –  nothing more than an impulse, really –  surged through her.

She did have choices.

The choices might have repercussions – but that didn’t mean that she didn’t have them.

Calmly, almost casually, she straightened up and looked Sir Emrys in the eye. Then, giving him a wide smile, she poured scalding coffee straight into his lap.

She would hand in her notice in the morning.

It hadn’t been an impulsive decision, Ruby reflected, as she tossed and turned into the small hours.

Not really.

It was true that she hadn’t planned to leave service that day . . . or even that week. And she certainly hadn’t planned to throw coffee over Sir Emrys that evening in a bid to precipitate the whole thing. But she had, more or less, decided that she was going to go home. Back to the East End where the need was greatest and she would be best able to ‘do her bit’. She’d just been waiting for the right opportunity.

The seed had been planted a couple of weeks ago when Ruby had last gone home. Her brother Harry was leaving to start his army training in Buckinghamshire and Ruby had wanted to say goodbye to him in person. To be honest, she hadn’t really thought this day would ever come. Pa had been dead these four years –  killed in an accident at the docks where he and Harry had both worked –  but Ruby knew he would never have countenanced any of them getting directly involved in the war. Pa had always been adamant the working classes should stick together –  regardless of whether a person happened to have been born English, Russian or even German –  and his words had stuck. And, so, when the war had started almost two years ago, Harry had carried on working at the docks and

Ruby had continued her job in service, both determined to keep their heads down until the whole damn thing was over.

But now everything had changed.

Harry still hadn’t chosen to join the army . . . but the army had finally come for him.

Earlier that year, Lord Derby had introduced the Military Service Act with compulsory conscription for all single men over eighteen. And whilst there seemed to be an endless list of exemptions, none of them had applied to Harry – and off he had gone.

Ready, if not willing, to do his duty to King and Country.

Poor Pa would be turning in his grave!

And, whilst all that had been going on, a new munitions factory had opened a stone’s throw from Sanctuary Lane. Ma had said they were desperate for female workers to replace the men who had gone to the various fronts. Women and girls to manufacture the very weapons that would help get Harry and the others back home as quickly and as safely as possible.

As soon as she heard about it, Ruby knew that she had to sign up to work there. Pa would have hated it, of course. Ruby still missed her father; he had been a harsh disciplinarian –  like many fathers in Silvertown –  but he had also been funny and kind and wise and Ruby had always known, without a doubt, that she was loved. But now it was time to help her mother. Harry had gone away but hopefully having her daughter home would take away some of the sting. Her younger brother Charlie was still at home, of course, but, at only fourteen, he was still a child. Besides, not only would Ruby be ‘doing her bit’ for the

war effort but, by all accounts, the money was a huge increase on what she was currently earning; 35 shillings a week if some of the rumours were to be believed! It might even be enough to allow Ma to stop doing shifts at the laundry around the corner –  and wouldn’t that be a fine thing? Ma had been looking very old and tired when Ruby had last seen her.

But, on the downside, the munitions factory would, no doubt, be full of girls from school. Ruby had hated school. Oh, she had enjoyed the lessons well enough –  the reading and writing and sums had come easily to her and she had always been top of the class – but she had never quite managed to fit in. Not properly. She had never known the right thing to say; she hadn’t been interested in films and film stars and she couldn’t have given two figs about ribbons and skirt lengths. Worse still, she hadn’t even been able to feign an interest and so she had spent most of the time on the outside looking in. When school finished, she had left for her job in Hampstead –  Ma’s cousin had known Cook’s sister who knew the Hendersons were looking for a housemaid – with a curious mixture of relief and regret. To be fair, she hadn’t been much good at making friends in Hampstead either –  far preferring to take Boniface for long walks across the Heath or visit the horses in the stables than indulge in tittle-tattle with the maids from the other apartments.

Either way, it was now time to go home.

She had certainly burned her bridges with Mr and Mrs Henderson. Ruby could hardly believe she had deliberately spilt coffee over one of their most important clients. Sir Emrys had gone puce in the face and, with his wife

clucking impotently behind him, had disappeared down the corridor to the bathroom, shouting incoherently and clutching his nether regions. Ruby hadn’t seen what had happened next because Mrs Henderson had forcibly removed the empty coffee pot from her hands and frogmarched her back to the kitchen. Ruby had fully expected to be dumped unceremoniously out on the street –  fired without a reference –  but instead Mrs Henderson had hissed that she was not to show her face again, that she was not to go to bed until the kitchen was spotless and that they would have ‘words’ the next day. No doubt Mrs Henderson didn’t want to be lumbered with the washingup and would fire Ruby first thing in the morning.

Ruby had been tempted to just leave there and then. But it was too late for the Tube to be running and she didn’t have the money to fork out for a taxi all the way back to the East End. There was no choice but to stay the night. Then she had been tempted to collapse into bed and to hell with the washing-up. She could hardly be fired twice! But something – pride? guilt? inability to leave a job half finished? –  had stopped her. Instead, she spent a couple of hours doggedly working through the tottering piles of plates and cutlery and glassware, emptying the ashtrays, mopping the floors –  until everything was shipshape and Bristol fashion. Only then did she allow herself to creep upstairs to her little room in the attic and slip under the cosy eiderdown.

What a night!

If only Cook and Agnes had been there to witness her moment of glory.

Ruby got up as normal at five o’clock and, for want of anything better to do, started her daily routine. She didn’t want to just disappear –  where was the honour in that? –  and nor could she very well just barge into Mr and Mrs Henderson’s elegant bedroom and announce that she was off. In an ideal world, she would wait to say her goodbyes to Cook, but that was probably wishful thinking. By the time Mrs Henderson was ready to ‘have words’, Ruby had already cleaned the kitchen range, sifting the cinders that had been too hot to handle the night before and polishing the stove with a leather. She had lit the fire, filled the kettle and put it on to boil and was just laying out the breakfast cloth when Mrs Henderson swept into the dining room and sat down at the head of the table. She gestured for Ruby to stand in front of her and then folded her hands into a steeple, her face grave. Ruby had a vision of Mrs Henderson pulling on a black cap to pronounce sentence and had to stifle a wholly inappropriate giggle.

‘Well, that was a pretty rum show last night,’ Mrs Henderson started without preamble.

Ruby found herself unable to look her employer in the eye. ‘Yes, Ma’am, but didn’t you see Sir Emrys? He . . .’

‘Sir Emrys is your elder and better and also happens to be a very important client of Mr Henderson,’ interrupted Mrs Henderson. ‘There is absolutely no excuse for how you behaved . . .’ She broke off and slammed her hand down on the table. ‘Damn it, girl. Look at me when I’m talking!’

Ruby ventured a glance.

It wasn’t an altogether comfortable experience.

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ she tried again. ‘And, in fact . . .’

‘Enough!’ snapped Mrs Henderson. ‘I don’t want to hear another word.’

Ruby shut her mouth mid-sentence.

This was it.

She was about to be fired.

Mrs Henderson inhaled slowly. ‘I’m sure yesterday was nothing more than an unfortunate accident,’ she said firmly.

‘Ma’am?’ Ruby’s word came out almost as a squawk. Whatever she had imagined Mrs Henderson might say, it hadn’t been . . . that ! Of course it hadn’t been an accident. Sir Emrys had had his hand fully on her bottom and . . .

‘Those coffee pots are very heavy and difficult to manhandle when they’re full,’ Mrs Henderson went on. ‘I said as much to Sir Emrys and he was happy to accept the explanation. If it happens again, there will be severe repercussions, but for now I am happy to consider the matter closed.’

Ruby paused. It seemed that she was about to be reprieved. But she didn’t want to be reprieved. And Sir Emrys didn’t deserve to get off scot-free. Mrs Henderson really should be ‘having words’ with him!

‘No, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘I spilt coffee on Sir Emrys on purpose because he put his hand on my . . . er . . . derrière.’

There was a pause. Ruby could have sworn she saw Mrs Henderson’s lips twitch.

‘I shall pretend that I didn’t hear that,’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘What an absurd thing to say! I expect Sir Emrys was reaching for his whisky or for the ashtray and that he brushed against you by accident.’

‘No, Ma’am,’ Ruby insisted. ‘Sir Emrys deliberately put his hand there. He’s always doing things like that –  brushing me bosom, squeezing me arse – and most times I just put up with it. But yesterday I’d just found out that Cook were off and I’d had enough.’

There was nothing like being honest.

‘Ah, yes. Cook,’ said Mrs Henderson, latching on to the new subject with evident relief. ‘Most inconveniently, Cook has seen fit to leave us. Maybe for the best as one or two things have gone missing over the past few months and my money was always on her. But, before she goes, I would like you to make it your business to learn a repertoire of straightforward recipes so that you can be responsible for our lunch and supper from now on. It’s a good opportunity for you and, if your work is satisfactory, we might consider giving you a pay rise at Christmas.’

Finally, Mrs Henderson’s strange behaviour began to make some sort of sense.

In any other circumstances, Ruby would already have been given her marching orders. But Cook had given her notice and the Hendersons couldn’t afford to lose both their servants in one fell swoop. With the war on, and new opportunities appearing for women every day, goodness knew when Mrs Henderson would be able to replace them.

But, then again, Ruby had already made up her mind to leave.

And as for that rubbish about Cook pilfering items, Ruby didn’t believe a word of it. Mrs Henderson was just trying to save face and keep the upper hand.

‘No,’ she said firmly.

‘No?’ Mrs Henderson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘If you ain’t going to fire me, I’m handing me notice in anyway.’

Mrs Henderson looked visibly shocked. ‘Come now, Ruby,’ she said. ‘Don’t be too hasty. Maybe we can review your salary in October.’

‘No,’ Ruby repeated. ‘I’m right exhausted as it is. If I do your cooking as well as everything else, I’d hardly get to bed at all. Besides,’ she added, as Mrs Henderson opened her mouth to speak, ‘I’d already made up me mind. I’m going back to the East End to do me bit for the war and, for your information, I’ll be paid a ruddy lot more for it, too. And I won’t have to put up with the likes of Sir Bloody Emrys sticking his hands where they’ve no bloody right to be.’

Twenty minutes later, Ruby had packed her meagre possessions into her battered suitcase and was ready to go. Mrs Henderson had twice tried to dissuade her from leaving but, finding Ruby resolute, had finally retreated to her bedroom in defeat. How Ruby wished Cook had been a fly on the wall to hear her finally stand up for herself!

In the meantime, should she tell Ma she was on her way home?

She didn’t want to give her mother a heart attack by turning up out of the blue. The trouble was, how to get word to her? The post was down to four times daily nowadays, so it was extremely unlikely a letter would make it home before she did. And even in the unlikely event that Mrs Henderson let her use the telephone –  well, who

would she call? Nobody she knew in the East End had a telephone at home. She could always splash out on a telegram, of course –  but who in their right mind would do that in the middle of a war? The telegraph girls and boys weren’t nicknamed the ‘Angels of Death’ for nothing and it simply wouldn’t be fair on Ma.

No, she would just have to arrive home unannounced.

Ruby picked up her case and suddenly Boniface was at her heels, pushing his wet little nose into her hands. Ruby dropped to her knees and buried her head in the terrier’s warm fur, kissing him over and over. He was a marvellous dog and the truth of the matter was that she would miss him far more than she would the Hendersons.

There was no one else to wave her off, so she walked slowly down the rear steps and opened the back door. The sky was grey with clouds scudding past at quite a clip, but all at once she felt an overriding sense of lightness.

Whatever came next, however difficult it might be, she was free.

‘Oi! Where are you off to?’

It was Elsie, leaning against the back door and lighting a ciggie.

Ruby smiled at her. ‘No more soirées for me,’ she said. ‘I’m being patriotic and I’m going home. Say goodbye to Cook for me, will you?’

It was a mere ten miles from Hampstead to Silvertown in the East End of London, but it might as well have been another planet.

Teeming Silvertown –  with its docks, its factories, its oppressive red-brick tenements and terraced houses –  was always something of a shock after leafy, genteel Hampstead. Today, as Ruby alighted at Silvertown Station and began the fifteen-minute walk home to Sanctuary Lane, the contrast seemed even sharper. From the little groups of ragged urchins to the haggard-looking women corralling toddlers, everyone looked pinched, miserable and thinner than ever. Sharp eyes watched Ruby from every doorway and from the entrances to the closes. She knew that Mr and Mrs Henderson would dismiss them all as beggars, prostitutes and robbers, but Ruby just saw desperate people in an environment of filth, smoke and destitution, and realised just how cocooned she had been in service for the last five years.

Under leaden skies, she walked quickly down the high street. Somehow, the war seemed so much closer here. From the female conductress on the bus sweeping past to the many shuttered shops – ‘Closed for the Duration’ – everything served as a reminder that most young men of working age had now enlisted. Hampstead hadn’t been immune to any of this, of course, but –  because the

population was older –  it had felt far less pronounced. Here in Silvertown, there were more recruitment posters –  Join the Army and See the World –  more drunk soldiers back on leave, more poverty . . . more of everything.

But Ruby could only see the animals.

Everywhere she looked there were dogs and cats walking on three legs or dragging broken or injured limbs. Some looked blind with mange, others were scavenging in the gutters, ribs and shoulders protruding. Many of those would be strays, of course, but even in the yards there were painfully thin goats and rabbits huddled in corners and emaciated ponies and donkeys in little more than broken-down sheds. Ruby knew that these animals belonged to people who depended on them for their livelihoods, their security, or their health and that they simply couldn’t afford to look after them any more.

What the war had done to them all was terrible.

And here, right in front of her, was a dog tied to a lamppost outside a shop. A black and white mongrel with similar features to Boniface and the same beseechingly melting brown eyes. But there the similarity ended. This little fellow had weeping sores all down one side of his face and you could count every one of his ribs through his matted fur. He gave a little whimper as Ruby bent down to pat his head and her heart turned over. The poor little chap. She thought of Boniface, positively plump through treats and titbits – to say nothing of the leftovers from yesterday’s leg of lamb. Out of nowhere, the hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ came to mind and she railed at the injustice. The Lord God might have made them all, but who, exactly, was looking out for the animals of the East End?

And then it started to rain.

Ruby gave the little dog one last pat and trudged on, resisting the urge to turn around as the dog gave a piteous whine. She was powerless to help and, anyway, she had to get home before it started to pour in earnest. The hem of her skirt was already filthy from the stinking mix of animal manure and urine that everyone politely referred to as ‘mud’ and it would get ten times worse if she got caught in the rain. Maybe she should adopt the new above-theankle dresses that Mrs Henderson said were very à la mode, although no doubt Ma would have something to say about that !

Ruby hurried past the final parade of shops, turned right and . . . there it was.

Sanctuary Lane.

No one really knew why it was called Sanctuary Lane. Maybe there had once been a church or chapel there; a holy place –  long disappeared –  which had offered safety from pursuit. Or perhaps people escaping persecution from Europe had arrived at the nearby docks and sought refuge here. There was a multitude of possible reasons and no one knew – or cared – which one was right. It was just a name –  just as the neighbouring streets were called Victory Lane and Waterloo Terrace and no one knew why they had been given those names, either.

Like many of the residential roads in Silvertown, Sanctuary Lane was flanked by terraces of red- bricked, two-storey houses, each with a very small backyard and opening straight out on to the street. It was a long road, starting right in the centre of town –  indeed, strictly speaking, Muller’s the haberdashery and Fisher’s the

bakery were actually on Sanctuary Lane itself –  and then heading straight down towards the river. At the bottom of the street, bearing down on them all, was a large, imposing red-brick factory.

Home!

For a second, Ruby just stood and stared down the street, her heart quickening with excitement. Silly really; she might have lived in Hampstead for nigh on five years, but it was hardly as if she never came home. Still, Sanctuary Lane was where she belonged. It was imprinted on her heart and soul in a way that Hampstead –  for all its green, hilly splendour – could never be. On a whim, she delayed her homecoming to nip into Fisher’s to buy cakes. They were eye-wateringly expensive but, at the very least, they might help cushion the shock of her arrival . . .

And then finally Ruby was running down Sanctuary Lane to Number 139. The skies completely opened –  of course they did – so she sprinted the final stretch with her suitcase over her head. Number 139’s step and door knocker gleamed, even in the murky light. The door was on the latch and Ruby smiled as she pushed it open. Never mind that there was a war on; hell would have to freeze over before the front door was locked.

Ruby dumped her case unceremoniously and ran down the short passage to the kitchen. She pushed open the door and there were Ma and her sister, Aunt Maggie, drinking tea at the oilskinned table, thinner and paler even in the past couple of weeks. Both women got to their feet –  their mouths round O’s of surprise –  and then Ma was in front of her, hands on hips, and . . .

‘What on earth are you doing here, Ruby?’ she demanded. ‘Have you got an unexpected day off or summat?’

‘No,’ said Ruby. ‘I’ve left! I ain’t ever going back there again.’ Suddenly, the reality of what she had done hit her and she wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying.

Ma took Ruby by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Are you in trouble?’ she asked. ‘Lordy me, you’re in trouble, ain’t you?’

Ruby bit her lip to stop herself from smiling. Of course she wasn’t in trouble. There wasn’t anyone she could have got in trouble with in Hampstead – even had she been so inclined. It wasn’t as if she’d been living in a great country pile with butlers and valets and footmen coming out of the woodwork. Mind you, Elsie had stepped out with a lad who had worked in the communal gardens one summer and Mrs Henderson’s previous maid had married one of the delivery boys way back when. And, of course, if Sir Emrys – or another of his ilk – had chosen to follow Ruby into the scullery or the back stairs – well, who knew what might have happened?

And that wasn’t funny at all.

But she just said, ‘Don’t worry, Ma. I ain’t in trouble. Not unless you count leaving without giving notice. I’ve come home to do me bit for the war in the munitions factory.’

And Ma stepped forward and wrapped Ruby in a bosomy embrace. Ruby, not much given to hugs, resisted the instinct to wriggle free and instead patted Ma awkwardly between her thin, protruding shoulder blades.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Ma.

‘I’m not sure Pa would say the same,’ said Ruby, with a rueful grin. ‘But I hope Harry might be pleased.’

She hadn’t particularly missed Harry’s presence yet; even on a Sunday, he’d have been down at the Royal Victoria Dock helping unload grain into the silos and warehouses of the various flourmills that lined the river. But now her eye was drawn by the black and white photograph –  fancy! –  of Harry in uniform on the mantelpiece and her heart gave a little lurch. Harry wasn’t here and goodness only knew when she would see him again.

‘I’ll make another brew,’ said Aunt Maggie.

Oh, it was lovely to be home.

Lovely to sit in the warm, steamy kitchen and drink cup after cup of warm, sweet tea. Lovely not to be shouted at to ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that’ and ‘get a shift on’ by Cook or Mrs Henderson. She knew Ma and Aunt Maggie weren’t above saying all or any of those things, but just for the moment, it was marvellous to be treated as a Very Important Person –  almost as if she was a grand lady from Hampstead rather than born and bred in Sanctuary Lane. So, she sat and told her mother and aunt all that had happened at the dinner party, even the bit about Sir Emrys putting his hand on her bottom and her pouring coffee into his lap by way of reply.

‘Well, well,’ said Ma, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘My little Ruby who wouldn’t have said boo to a goose as a little girl.’

‘So now I’m home,’ Ruby finished simply. ‘And, like I said, I want to do me bit. I’m going to sign up at the munitions factory as soon as I can. Tomorrow, if possible.’

‘You’ll be bright yellow before summer’s done,’ Aunt Maggie said sourly.

Ruby was confused. ‘Bright yellow?’ she echoed.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Aunt Maggie with something approaching satisfaction. ‘All the girls that work there turn bright yellow from the chemicals. Canary girls – that’s what everyone’s calling them.’

‘But can’t they wash it off?’ Ruby was nonplussed.

‘Wash it off?’ Aunt Maggie repeated incredulously. ‘My dear, the colour goes right through them. If you cut them open, their hearts, their livers, everything will be bright yellow.’

‘How can you possibly know that, Maggie?’ said Ma with a laugh. ‘And not all the girls go yellow, do they? Not even most. Don’t go putting Ruby off before she’s even applied.’

‘I’ll tell you how I know,’ said Aunt Maggie, sitting forward. ‘You know Nellie from the dogfood barrow? Well, I heard her daughter had a baby not two weeks ago and it came out of her bright yellow. Gave Nellie quite a shock, I’m telling you.’

Goodness!

‘It don’t matter,’ said Ruby, staunchly. ‘If going yellow is a price I need to pay, so be it. Harry will be putting himself in harm’s way every day if he ends up in France so I think I can put up with me skin changing colour.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ma. ‘Although you was much safer in Hampstead. I didn’t have to worry about you so much there.’

‘They’re both London, Ma,’ said Ruby. ‘Only a few miles apart.’

Ma sighed. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Only Hampstead ain’t got the docks and ports and factories and the Hun ain’t trying so hard to bomb it to smithereens.’

Ruby was silent.

Goodness; she hadn’t thought of it quite like that.

‘Yoo-hoo! Only me . . .’

A voice from the kitchen door made all the women turn round. It was Annie-Next-Door who had obviously let herself in through the unlocked scullery door.

‘Hello, Annie,’ said Ma.

‘I saw Ruby out front just before the heavens opened and thought I’d pop round to say hello,’ said Annie-NextDoor. ‘Only seems a matter of days since her last visit home!’

Ruby pressed her lips together in amusement. She seriously doubted that Annie-Next-Door had come round purely to exchange social pleasantries. In fact, AnnieNext-Door hadn’t had much time for Ruby ever since the day Ruby had accidentally barged into her at the Sanctuary Lane Coronation Street Party and sent her prize cake flying. No, Annie-Next-Door had clearly come round in search of gossip she could send speeding up and down the street before anyone could say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Cuppa, Annie?’ said Ma. ‘Yes, Ruby’s left service and is back to do her bit at the new munitions factory.’

Annie-Next-Door narrowed her bright blue eyes and Ruby knew exactly what she was thinking. Was it really a good idea to let so clumsy a girl loose with all those poisonous chemicals around?

‘Already got yourself a job lined up, have you?’ AnnieNext-Door asked.

‘Not yet.’

Ruby suddenly realised she had absolutely no idea how to set about getting signed up. In fact, she had no idea