The Hidden Women: An inspirational novel of sisterhood and strength. Kerry Barrett

he asked me, his brow furrowed in concern. ‘You’re very pale.’

      I swallowed. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It’s just the heat.’

      Mr Mayhew came over to where I sat and stood behind me. Gently, he reached out and stroked the back of my neck.

      ‘Lilian,’ he said gruffly. ‘Is something wrong?’

      I froze. My stomach was squirming and I wasn’t sure I could put how I was feeling into words. How could I tell him I’d wanted his approval for months, so badly that I almost felt a physical ache when I played a wrong note. That when he smiled at me my heart sang with the most beautiful music. That when he told me I was special to him, I wanted to throw myself into his arms and stay there forever. And yet, as spring had blossomed into early summer, and he had kissed me for the first time, I’d gone home feeling confused and guilty. When, just a week later, he had put his hand up my skirt while I played, his fingers probing and hurting, I’d gasped in fear and he’d nodded.

      ‘Like that?’ he said, his voice thick. ‘I thought you would. I knew what you wanted from the day you walked in here.’

      I’d stayed still, not understanding what he was doing. Not wanting to upset him by asking him to stop. Because I had wanted this. Hadn’t I?

      Now, after our lessons he would kiss me, and touch me – and make me touch him too. I didn’t know how to say no. Because I’d started this, hadn’t I? And sometimes he came to school to meet me at the gate and give me music he’d copied for me by hand – see how much cared – and we walked home the long way through the woods. And he’d take me by the hand and lower me into the soft moss below one of the trees and unbuckle his belt and …

      I found that by imagining playing the piano I could pretend it wasn’t happening. And then when it was over, Mr Mayhew would always be so kind. He would brush leaves from my hair, and tell me how precious I was. I never cried until I was alone.

      Now, feeling his fingers on the back of my neck, I waited for what he would do next.

      ‘Are you cross with me?’ he murmured. ‘Because I wanted you to play first?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to play.’

      ‘You tease me,’ he said. He trailed his fingers over my collarbone and down to my bust, and I closed my eyes.

      And then the front door banged shut and he pulled away as if my faded cotton dress was prickly.

      ‘Ian,’ Mrs Mayhew called. ‘Ian, are you there?’

      She came into the music room without knocking, which she never did. Mr Mayhew was very strict about that. Not a surprise, I supposed, given what we were often doing instead of playing piano.

      Mrs Mayhew’s hat was askew and her hair was escaping from its roll. She had a streak of dust across the front of her dress and her forehead was beaded with sweat. I’d never seen her look so flustered; she was normally perfectly groomed.

      ‘Oh, Ian,’ she wailed. ‘Ian, have you heard the news?’

      Mr Mayhew stiffened next to me. ‘He’s done it, has he?’ he said. ‘He’s bloody gone and done it?’

      A tear rolled down Mrs Mayhew’s face, leaving a clean track in the grime on her cheek.

      ‘I ran all the way from the village,’ she said. ‘They were talking about it on the street. Mrs Armitage was sitting at the war memorial, just weeping.’

      I felt sicker than I had moments before. Mrs Armitage had lost both her sons in the Great War. The war we’d been told would end all wars. The war that my own father never talked about.

      ‘What does this mean?’ I stammered. ‘Is it Hitler? What has he done?’

      Mr Mayhew patted me on the head distractedly, his full attention on his wife.

      ‘He’s sent his troops into Poland,’ he said. ‘And Mr Chamberlain promised that if he did that, then …’ His voice trailed off.

      ‘I need to go home,’ I said. ‘I need to find Bobby.’

      Mrs Mayhew looked at me for the first time. I didn’t think she’d even realised I was there before then.

      ‘Bobby,’ she said vaguely. ‘Who is Bobby?’

      I was already halfway out of the door. ‘He’s my brother,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘I need to find my brother.’

       Chapter 8

      Helena

      May 2018

      Work was crazily busy for the next few days and I didn’t have any time to think about Lil for a while. Until Jack Jones turned up at the office again – much to my surprise.

      ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said when I went down to reception to see him. ‘I was having lunch with my agent nearby, and thinking about everything you’d found out and I wanted to see how you were getting on.’

      I gave him a small, forced smile. ‘Yeah, all good,’ I said vaguely. I was getting on pretty well with his research, but I wasn’t happy about him checking up on me in this way.

      ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Does this look like I’m checking up on you?’

      He was so close to what I was thinking that I stared at him in horror.

      ‘It does a bit,’ I admitted, unable to think of anything else to say but the truth. ‘The celebs aren’t normally this interested.’

      He grinned at me, pushing a lock of his curls out of his dark eyes, and I felt myself melting, just a bit.

      ‘I’m being a nightmare,’ he said.

      ‘It’s fine.’ I was feeling slightly odd. ‘Do you want to come upstairs?’

      I took him up to the office and we sat in the same meeting room as before. Elly was at lunch, thank goodness, else she’d have been hovering to see what Jack wanted.

      I offered him a coffee and tried to disguise my relief when he turned it down.

      ‘I had an early start today so I’ve had more than enough caffeine already,’ he said, with the same cheeky grin. ‘It makes me a bit bouncy.’

      ‘I wish you’d bounce my way,’ I thought to myself and then blinked in surprise. What was happening here? I’d barely looked at a man since Greg and I had fallen apart. Being a heartbroken single mother hardly made me a catch. And yet, here I was, fluttering my eyelashes at a real-life celebrity who was as likely to fancy me back as – well, as Greg I supposed.

      I swallowed. ‘I’ve found out quite a lot about your grandparents, and your great-grandparents,’ I said carefully looking away from where his T-shirt hugged his broad chest. ‘It’s relatively simple to research just one or two generations back.’

      I leafed through my folder to find the right documents.

      ‘Do you not know any of this already?’

      Jack shook his head.

      ‘My maternal grandparents came over from Jamaica in the Fifties,’ he said. ‘They had one daughter already, and my mum was the first of their children to be born here. She’s the middle child – I’ve got two aunties.’

      I nodded, interested. We’d not researched his maternal family at all so this was all new to me.

      ‘My grandad was a bus driver and my gran was a nurse. They worked really, really hard and they wanted a better life for their kids – my mum and my aunties.’

      I nodded again.

      ‘And then Mum decided she wanted to be a writer, which wasn’t really in their plan,’ he said