Lost Angel. Kitty Neale

Chapter Thirty-Eight

       Chapter Thirty-Nine

       Chapter Forty

       Chapter Forty-One

       Chapter Forty-Two

       Chapter Forty-Three

       Chapter Forty-Four

       Chapter Forty-Five

       Chapter Forty-Six

       Chapter Forty-Seven

       Chapter Forty-Eight

       Chapter Forty-Nine

       Chapter Fifty

       Chapter Fifty-One

       Chapter Fifty-Two

       Chapter Fifty-Three

       Chapter Fifty-Four

       Chapter Fifty-Five

       Keep Reading

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       By the same author

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

       Battersea, South London, September 1940

      Nine-year-old Ellen Stone woke to the incessant wail of the air raid siren. Neighbourhood dogs were already howling and Ellen’s stomach churned with fear as she flung back the blankets.

      ‘Come on, get a move on,’ her mother, Hilda, shouted, ‘and don’t forget your gas mask.’

      Ellen’s thin legs wobbled as she reached out in total darkness to fumble for the light switch. With the blackout in force, and the windows covered to prevent even a chink of light escaping, her bedroom looked gloomy in the dim glow of a bare lightbulb. Ellen pushed her shoulder-length dark hair aside as she thrust bare feet into her shoes, and then, grabbing the hated gas mask, she ran downstairs.

      ‘Hurry up,’ her mum urged.

      They stumbled down the garden to the Anderson shelter, but could already hear the heavy, uneven throb of bombers flying across London.

      ‘Oh, Mum,’ cried Ellen.

      ‘I know, love, I know,’ she consoled, closing the shelter door behind them. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably going for the Surrey Docks again. Now hold the torch so I can light the oil lamp.’

      With hands shaking, Ellen did as she was told, and though her mum was a tiny woman, less than five foot tall, she leaned on her strength. With light brown hair, small dark eyes and a thin face that ended in a pointed chin, her mother was like a pretty mouse in appearance, yet there was nothing meek in her demeanour. She could be soft and kind, but woe betide anyone who crossed her.

      ‘There, that’s better,’ Hilda said in the glow from the oil lamp.

      They sat on the camp bed, but Ellen jumped as a loud barrage of gunfire sounded, relieved when her mum put an arm around her shoulder, saying, ‘They’re ours, love. It’s those huge banks of anti-aircraft guns they’ve set up in Battersea Park.’

      ‘I … I’m still scared, Mum.’

      ‘I know, and this can’t go on. We need to get you out of London, but I don’t fancy this evacuation lark where you’d be sent off to strangers. I’ve sent a letter to my old friend Gertie, asking if you can stay with her for a while.’

      ‘But … but what about you? I don’t want to go without you.’

      ‘Your gran and granddad won’t shift and I can’t leave them. You’ll be fine with Gertie and you’ll love it on her smallholding. She’s even got chickens.’

      There was the sudden shriek of stick bombs falling, along with the clatter of incendiaries as they landed on roofs and pavements. This was followed almost immediately by a loud boom, and another, so many that Ellen lost count as the ground shook beneath them. She was deafened by the noise, terrified, her mum now hunched over her like a shield.

      All sense of time was lost, but then came a strange stillness, a hush before more noise – this time the dull thud of walls collapsing. ‘Mum, I can smell burning.’

      They sat up to hear the crackle of flames and swiftly her mum moved to douse the oil lamp, a tremor in her voice. ‘The … the gas mains may have been hit, but it’s all right, we’re safe here. I think it’s over now, but we’ll have to wait for the all-clear. I can’t light the Primus so we’ll just have a drop of water.’

      Fumbling in the dim light, her mum poured water from a bottle into tin mugs and, throat parched, Ellen drank it greedily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

      They sat, ears alert, dreading another wave of bombers until at last, after what felt like another hour, the all-clear tone from the siren sounded.

      Tentatively they left the shelter, only to stand almost paralysed with shock at the sight that greeted them. Their house, along with every other in the street, had been destroyed, crushed, and all that remained were piles of rubble.

      ‘Oh, no, no,’ Hilda gasped.

      The landscape appeared vast, alien, and at first beyond Ellen’s comprehension, but then she realised why. It wasn’t just their street that had been hit; it was the next one and the one beyond that, the area now a huge open mass of destruction. Dust was thick in the air, along with the smell of gas and smoke. Fires burned and Ellen was dimly aware of the distant sound of bells clanging as fire engines rushed to the scene. Yet still she and her mother stood, dazed and unmoving.

      Gradually more people appeared, covered in dust like them, and it was only then that Ellen’s mother seemed to come to life.

      ‘Mum! Dad,’ she cried, grabbing Ellen’s hand to drag her forward. They stumbled over rubble, disorientated, both soon coated in filth, until at last Ellen thought they might be in what had once been the next street. Even though she knew what to expect, a sob caught in her throat. It was gone, like theirs … her grandparents’ house was gone.

      ‘Mum! Dad!’ Hilda yelled, falling to her knees as she frantically dug at the rubble. Ellen ran to help, their hands and fingers soon bleeding, yet still they dug.

      ‘I told them,’ Hilda sobbed. ‘I told them to use their shelter, but they just wouldn’t listen and preferred to crawl under the table. Mum! Dad! Can you hear me?’

      For