The Cornish Girls. Betty Walker

her last encounter with their less pleasant neighbours, a small group of troublemakers who called themselves the Dagenham Daggers. ‘You’d best head off home now. I’m nearly at my front door, anyway.’

      ‘If you’re sure …’

      In the far distance, there was the ominous drone of aircraft engines. They both glanced up at the darkening sky, knowing what that meant. Some poor soul was going to get it tonight, and you just had to hope it wasn’t you. A shudder of fear ran through her.

      ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said briskly. ‘You shouldn’t be out this late, Fred. There’ll be another air raid tonight, like as not.’

      ‘Goodnight, then.’ Fred turned away, shoulders slumped.

      But before he had taken more than three steps, a jagged stone came flying out of nowhere and hit Violet on the ankle.

      ‘Bleedin’ hell!’ she cried out, hobbling towards her front door as she fumbled in her purse for her latchkey.

      Fred turned at once, staring at the shadowy street corner opposite. ‘Who’s out there? Who did that?’ His voice was suddenly strong and angry, and Violet could not help feeling grateful that he was still there. ‘You cowards! Throwing stones at a woman?’

      ‘She deserves it – she’s one of them,’ came the hoarse reply, and now she could see a grimy face in the shadows. Two or three grimy faces, she realised. Boys, not much older than her late sister’s girls. Bareheaded street lads in filthy clothes. ‘Gotta kick her out the street, see? Or she’ll have the lot of us.’

      ‘One of who? What are you talking about?’

      The face came into sharper focus, a narrow chin with an even narrower body below it, but wiry, like a whippet’s.

      Patrick Dullaghan, self-appointed leader of the Dagenham Daggers.

      ‘One of the Hun,’ he said darkly, and stooped to pick up another stone from the street, weighing it in his hand. Two of the houses further down the street had taken a hit a few weeks before, and the road was still littered with debris. ‘Hey, Fred, ain’t you heard what folk are saying about Violet Hopkins? Her brother-in-law’s one of the enemy. A bleedin’ German.’

      ‘What rubbish!’ Fred clapped his hands loudly, walking towards the lads. ‘Don’t talk such rot.’ He was speaking loudly enough to make Violet nervous. She peered up and down the dark street for any sign of the air-raid wardens who often patrolled the streets, but there was nobody about. ‘Off you go home, the lot of you. Before I report you to the police for assaulting a lady.’

      The boys behind Patrick Dullaghan melted back into the shadows at that threat, but their leader hesitated. He threw the stone in a half-hearted fashion, missing her completely, before disappearing down the road while Fred glowered after him.

      Shakily, Violet turned and struggled to fit her latchkey into the lock, groping about in the dark. Night had fallen while they were dealing with those nasty bullies. In the distance, she could once again hear the drone of engines high over London, but wasn’t sure if they were enemy planes or their own boys.

      ‘Ta, Fred.’

      ‘Goodnight, Miss.’

      Violet nodded and slipped inside, closing the door on him. But not before she’d seen the look on his face and known he’d been hoping for more than a ‘Thank you’.

      And something else, perhaps. The hint of suspicion.

      Fred must have heard the rumours, though he had never mentioned them. But it looked as if he too was wondering …

      In times like these, it only took a few whispers and most people would instantly assume guilt. No need for evidence, or a judge and jury. Not when the enemy was killing people in their beds every night.

      She removed her coat and hung it up in the dark hallway, closing her eyes briefly as she remembered the vicious look on Patrick Dullaghan’s face, the sting of his words.

       Gotta kick her out the street.

      And what for?

      Because her brother-in-law, a man who had bravely enlisted on the English side within days of the outbreak of war, was half-German.

      He was also missing in action, presumed dead.

      Not that any of that had stopped the whispers flying around Dagenham. Oh no, it had made him seem even more guilty. Not honourably dead. But missing.

      Hurriedly checking her reflection in the hall mirror, Violet found she looked awfully pale, while her shoulder-length fair hair, swept off her face for work and set in a soft roll, seemed a little untidy. She patted her hair back into place and pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back.

      ‘Violet? That you?’

      She pushed into the sitting room to find her mother in the armchair, a woollen blanket over her knees, knitting patiently as she listened to the wireless.

      ‘Who else would it be, Mum?’ Violet whisked the tea cosy off the china pot on the table. The teapot was cool. ‘Shall I make some fresh, or top it up?’

      ‘Top it up, Vi, love.’ Sheila clacked her knitting needles, her attention still half on the wireless, where a man with a plummy accent was droning on about the war effort. ‘We’re nearly out of tea leaves.’ Then she stopped and frowned. ‘You’re late back. Any trouble at the caff?’

      ‘No, all locked up for the night.’

      ‘Were you dawdling again?’

      ‘I had to do a stock-take. Time got away from me.’

      ‘That’s all very well, but what have I told you about being out so late?’

      ‘Sorry, Mum.’ Heading for the kitchen, Violet wobbled on her heels and winced at the ache in her ankle. ‘Ouch.’

      Her mother looked down and gasped. ‘What’s that? Vi, you’re bleeding!’

      Shocked, Violet glanced down too. Sure enough, the stone had hit her hard enough to break the skin. Luckily, she had not been wearing nylons – too expensive for work! But the small trickle of blood had been enough to alarm her mother.

      ‘Oh, it was only them blasted Dagenham Daggers.’

      ‘Language, Vi!’

      ‘Sorry, Mum, but really … They’re little better than thugs. Patrick Dullaghan threw a stone at me. I think they were lying in wait for me to come home from work.’

      ‘Those horrible beasts. They ought to be dragged off to prison!’ Her mother shook her head in angry disapproval. ‘But in heaven’s name, why throw stones at you?’

      Violet hesitated, then said simply, ‘Because of Ernst.’

      Her mother’s eyes stretched wide. ‘They can’t still think that my own son-in-law would be a …?’ She stopped short of using the word ‘spy’, but a familiar horror was in her voice. ‘Mrs Chilcott told me what people were saying. But I thought that had all blown over. How can they make such mischief? Ernst is missing in action, for goodness’ sake. And his girls have just lost their mother. It’s too awful. My poor Betsy.’ Tears sprang readily to her eyes at the name of her late daughter, who had left the shelter at the end of the street to return to her house for something – nobody quite knew what – and was found later in the rubble of her bombed-out house. ‘Have they no sense of shame?’

      Violet tried to imagine Patrick Dullaghan feeling shame, and failed.

      ‘I don’t think so, Mum.’

      She sat to slip off her heels and rub her sore ankle. No lasting harm had been done, she was sure. But what about next time? And that wasn’t the only thing that worried her about tonight’s attack. Her nieces, young as they were, had started to get a few hard stares from those street boys too. Lily had even reported someone shouting, ‘Bloody Hun!’ after her