Her Secret War Read online

  HER SECRET WAR

  Pam Lecky

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Pam Lecky 2021

  Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover photographs © Lee Avison / Trevillion Images (background); Nikaa / Trevillion Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (planes)

  Pam Lecky asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008464844

  Ebook Edition © October 2021 ISBN: 9780008464851

  Version: 2021-08-23

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Lorna and Terry

  with thanks for your steadfast support

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  1

  30th May 1941, North Strand, Dublin

  It was almost Whitsuntide Eve. Sarah Gillespie ran down the last few yards of the laneway to the rear of the terrace of houses. Blinded by tears, she careered into a stack of boxes in the poor light, cursed and almost stumbled. Sarah glanced down at her footwear in disgust; dancing shoes weren’t ideal for a girl in a hurry. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a spare pair in her bag? To catch her breath, she leaned against the wall. Dismayed by her own feebleness, she concentrated hard on her breathing. She hated to lose control. With trembling fingers, she roughly wiped away the offending tears.

  Damn you, Paul O’Reilly! Sarah Gillespie does not cry over any man.

  Though falling out with Paul and inappropriate footwear weren’t her biggest problems right now. What if Da returned home before her? What if he went into the girls’ bedroom and discovered the pillows stuffed under Sarah’s blankets on her bed? If he were drunk, and there was a fair chance he would be, he wouldn’t twig; but if he wasn’t … A shiver ran through her; there would be hell to pay. Sneaking out to meet Paul wasn’t the cleverest thing, but with Da so vehemently opposed, what was a girl to do?

  ‘No daughter of mine will be mixed up with a good-for-nothing bicycle repair man!’ Da had almost choked on the words.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Sarah. With petrol rationed, Paul was inundated with work, keeping those lucky enough to be employed with a reliable means of transport. As their father had bellowed and cursed, Sarah had clenched her fists, but had remained silent. Beside her, her younger sister, Maura, wore that bleak and helpless expression which always came over her when Da’s temper blew up. Neither Sarah nor Maura would ever have the courage to gainsay him because there was no reasoning with Da.

  Sarah continued down the laneway at a slower pace until she reached a streetlight. Peeking at her watch, she was relieved to see it was ten minutes to midnight. Her abandoned date meant she was home earlier than usual. Da wouldn’t be in for ages yet. Having told Paul in no uncertain terms that she didn’t need his help to get home, she had hopped on the first bus to arrive at the stop. In her pique, she hadn’t noticed it was the wrong bus and she had had to get off at a stop some distance from North Strand, leaving her with a long walk. To avoid the possibility of meeting Da or any of his mates, she had slipped through the side streets. She knew Da and his cronies would be up on Newcomen Bridge, overlooking the canal, smoking their filthy Woodbines and putting the world to rights. Herr Hitler and Mr Churchill, look out!

  Still, something of the weekend could be salvaged, for she had persuaded Da to accompany them to Howth the next afternoon. And, God willing, he’d be sober. Even he didn’t start drinking till late afternoon. Most days. She loved the journey along the coast road, then up the hill to the summit. It was one of her favourite places, with its stunning views of Dublin and beyond down to Wicklow with the distinctive shape of the Sugar Loaf Mountain standing proud in the distance. Nothing could be easier, with the tram for Howth passing right outside the door of No. 18. Maura had suggested a picnic. Not that there was much to take in the way of food; rationing was biting hard lately. But a flask of tea, a bottle of porter for Da and some sandwiches would keep them going. Maura was such a sweet girl, but very innocent for a seventeen-year-old. Sarah worried about her, mostly because Da didn’t bother. There were times Sarah resented the responsibility, but someone had to shield Maura from Da’s bad temper … and his fists.

  As Sarah approached the back gate of No. 18, she heard the sound she dreaded most; the deep throbbing of those blasted Jerry bombers flying over the city. For months now, they had been making their way up the Irish Sea at night, en route to bomb the poor unfortunates up in Belfast or Liverpool. Belfast had taken a real battering six weeks before. It had been so bad that the Irish government had sent fire crews up to help put out the fires and dig out the bodies. The newspapers had been full of the Blitz with shocking pictures of the devastation. For days after, a line of miserable refugees from Belfast had streamed out of Amiens Street railway station, just up the road. Her heart had gone out to them, especially the children, bewildered and scared.

  Recently, there had been rumours that the Luftwaffe had been spotted over land in the south of Ireland, ratcheting up the country’s anxiety. What if they mistook Dublin for Belfast and dropped their deadly cargo? Thank God for the Taoiseach, Éamon de Valera. He had declared that Ireland was neutral and the Brits and the Jerries just had to accept that. Of course, Da had something to say about it. As a true republican, he and his daft mates thought Ireland should join the German cause and help crush the British. Pub talk, most of it, but Sarah knew Da had history. He’d led a flying column during the War of Independ
ence, and he boasted about it whenever the opportunity arose. Some locals avoided him because of his pro-republican rhetoric.

  Suddenly the clear night sky was illuminated by the sweeping searchlights trying to pinpoint the planes. Sarah stood rooted to the spot. The hum of the engines was louder tonight.

  A warning flare went up, bursting like a star. The flares usually worked, warning the Germans off, though at times it took a few shells to remind them it was Dublin – move on! More flares shot up, and still the planes circled, like vultures. Sarah shivered. Maura was on her own and would be terrified. She needed to hurry.

  The rattle of gunfire ripped through the air just as Sarah put her hand to the gate. She stalled, unsure what to do. It was some time since the anti-aircraft gun at Clontarf had fired. Suddenly, the sky was alight with a fireworks display. Between the searchlights, the flares, and the streaks of light from the shells, it was spectacular. Sarah wondered what make of plane they were. Paul would know; he was mad keen on aircraft. So keen, in fact, that he wanted to join the RAF. Just typical, that. You find a nice lad who treats you well, and he decides to dash off to England and enlist. Hurt and disappointed when he’d told her tonight, she had lashed out and told him they were finished. God! The look on his face; she knew she had wounded him. Irrevocably. The thought of what she had done made her cheeks burn. Her temper was always getting her into scrapes. Now that she had cooled down a little, the regrets were creeping in. She had been too hasty, as usual.

  Soon, Paul will be fighting the likes of those bombers flying so low overhead. Then it struck her. She had never seen them fly so low. They were skimming the rooftops. Horrified, Sarah could see the pilot of one plane as it swooped past. Scared, she drew back into the shadows. That was close! There was a bang as another flare went up, and a minute later another barrage of shelling. Surely the Germans would move on now?

  But then the strangest thing; some planes were coming back the other way towards the south of the city. They never did that. Were they lost?

  Disconcerted, Sarah pushed open the gate and scuttled up the path through their small back yard. The ancient sycamore, conveniently located close to the house, was her ladder. As she contemplated the climb, Maura’s head popped out from their bedroom window, but her gaze was directed at the light show above.

  ‘Hey, kiddo!’ Sarah yelled and waved, but Maura couldn’t hear her above the din. Sarah called out again, louder this time.

  Maura leaned out. ‘Is that you, Sarah?’

  ‘Of course it’s me! Who else would be daft enough to stand out here shouting up at you?’

  ‘Well, I can’t see you behind the blasted tree, now can I?’ Maura replied. ‘You’re all right. Da isn’t home yet. Hang on; you can save yourself the climb and your stockings into the bargain. I’ll let you in the back door instead.’

  ‘Good woman,’ Sarah shouted back. A few minutes later, Sarah heard the key turn and the door swung open. Maura’s head popped out, her expression fearful as she glanced skywards.

  There was a whoosh overhead as a Jerry plane swept past. ‘Janey Mac, I’ve never seen the like,’ Sarah gasped, watching as the bomber disappeared northward. ‘There’s so many of them. God help Belfast.’

  ‘Come in, Sarah,’ Maura urged. ‘I don’t like it. Look, they’ve broken formation. See that one,’ she pointed upwards, ‘he’s circling back. They never do that.’

  Maura looked terrified and despite the fear settling in her own stomach, Sarah knew she had to appear calm. ‘Relax! They know it’s Dublin. They’re not stupid.’

  ‘All the same, don’t linger out there.’ Maura tugged her sleeve and pulled her inside. ‘It could be dangerous.’

  Once inside, Sarah pulled off her jacket, stretched her arms and yawned. ‘Calm down, Maura. They’re just acting the maggot.’

  Maura didn’t look convinced. ‘I wish they’d take their antics elsewhere. Preferably Berlin.’

  ‘They’ll move on soon, you’ll see.’ Sarah gave her a smile, hoping to dispel her fears.

  ‘So, how was the date?’ Maura asked.

  ‘Grand. Mostly. We went to that new place on the quays.’

  ‘The Flamingo?’

  ‘Yes. Daft name isn’t it, for a Dublin club? And the crush!’

  ‘Was the band any good?’ Maura asked wistfully. Sarah knew it was weeks since her little sister had been out dancing. It was always a battle to get Da to agree to her going out.

  ‘I’ve heard worse.’

  Suddenly, Maura leaned closer and frowned. ‘Have you been cryin’, Sarah? Your mascara is all smudged.’

  Sarah pushed her away. ‘No! Don’t be daft. Just something in me eye. Any tea in that pot?’

  ‘I’ll check,’ Maura answered, picking up the chipped teapot from the centre of the table. She grimaced and shook her head. ‘No joy.’

  Sarah sat down with a sigh on one of the rickety chairs. ‘I’m parched; be a love and make some fresh. There should be enough of a glimmer to heat the water.’ She kicked off her shoes and rubbed the soles of her feet. ‘I swear I have a blister on both feet. Dratted shoes.’

  Maura still stood by the stove, frowning. ‘What if the glimmer man comes? We’d be in awful trouble.’

  ‘Maura, it’s a bank holiday weekend. I’m sure the man is suppin’ pints in the pub along with the rest of the male population of North Strand.’

  ‘All right,’ Maura replied, taking up the kettle and half filling it. Then she leaned against the counter and stared off into space, waiting for the kettle to boil. Maura’s soft, rounded cheeks and petite frame only added to her childlike appearance. And in many ways, Maura was still a child. Sarah had done her best the last five years, but she was no substitute for Ma. That void could never be filled. Da’s neglect made her so angry. And tonight, with all the bizarre stuff going on, why wasn’t he home to check on them? Maura was scared of her own shadow; he knew that. Surely, it was his job to protect his daughters? But it appeared they could not compete with the lads in the pub. There was no chance of Da abandoning his pint. Not a chance in hell.

  The drone of a bomber broke the silence. Maura flinched and crossed herself, before peeking out the window. ‘What is going on tonight?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, kiddo. Come on, the kettle is boiling now. Get a move on,’ Sarah cajoled. But her palms were sweating. She wiped them on her skirt while Maura’s back was turned. Heart thumping, Sarah took a furtive glance out the window. Something didn’t feel right. Why was Jerry still over Dublin? Were they deliberately trying to scare them for a joke?

  Maura finished making the tea and handed her a cup. ‘Sorry, no milk. Best drink up. We don’t want Da finding us up when he gets home.’ The boom of the anti-aircraft gun could be heard in the distance. Maura threw up her hands, a fierce frown marring her delicate features. ‘How are we going to get to sleep with that racket going on out there?’ With that, she stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  ‘They’ll be gone soon, I’m sure,’ Sarah called after her. No response. Great! Maura was now in one of her moods. Sarah gulped down her tea then brought her cup to the sink under the window to rinse it out. Suddenly weary, her throat tightened, and tears threatened to flow once more. Blast Paul and blast the Germans! Blinking the tears away, she stared up into the night sky, only to spot another bomber caught in a searchlight as the anti-aircraft gun rattled once more. Could this night get any worse?

  2

  31st May 1941, North Strand, Dublin

  Sarah disliked the idea of a blackout. If pushed, she would admit to a fear of the dark, her childhood fear of those multi-armed creatures that inhabited the space under her bed never having been truly conquered. Not that blackout regulations were strictly enforced in Dublin. There had been no clear ruling from Dublin Corporation, or ‘the Corpo’ as it was fondly known as by the majority of Dubs. Some advocated Dublin being fully lit, so the Germans knew the city was neutral; others favoured the safety of darkness. What they had was a ridiculous mix of t
he two. So far, Ireland had been relatively untouched, bar a few stray Jerry bombs which the German embassy insisted were dropped in error due to faulty navigation.

  Tonight, like most nights, Sarah left the curtains open, hoping to glimpse the stars. Even with all the strange activity this evening, it was preferable to see what was happening out in the world. The window was open, but the bedroom beneath the eaves was stuffy and claustrophobic. Sarah lay on her side, tense and uncomfortable, scanning her view of the night sky framed by the sash window. Perhaps, for once, it would be better not to focus on the world outside. With a sigh, she turned over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, subconsciously tracing the line of the crack that stretched from the door to the far corner. Like much of the rest of their rented house, the bedroom was showing signs of age and decay. Da said it was the trams passing that had caused the subsidence in their stretch of Victorian terraces, but his complaints to the landlord fell on deaf ears. The upside was that their rent was low and with three wages coming in, they could afford to be the sole occupants. Most of the other houses in their terrace were sublet. One family Sarah knew lived in one room, all five of them.

  The house creaked and settled. Sarah strained to hear. Was that Da coming in? Silence. She breathed out her relief. If only … What if he never returned? Would it be so very bad? Life would be simple; they could be happy, just the two of them. No tension, no watching what you said. He was so difficult to live with. Everything was black and white to Da. Reality and Jim Gillespie were strangers since Ma had died, Sarah suspected, but he was not the kind of man who would take kindly to that opinion being voiced. As a result, there wasn’t much joy at No. 18.

  Sometimes, Sarah struggled to remember Ma clearly, but then she would hear one of her mother’s favourite songs on the wireless, and she would cease what she was doing as the memories flooded back. Her mother used to sing along to those melodies, her voice low but sweet as she toiled over the washing or the preparation of the dinner. Ma would turn and smile and encourage them to sing with her. It was a comforting reminiscence, which, along with the scent of rosewater, were guaranteed to spin a comforting web to cushion Sarah’s grief. The tiny glass bottle, its contents almost dried out, still stood on the dressing table in her parents’ room. Whenever she went in, Sarah would uncap it and breathe in the memories. Everyone said Sarah was her mother’s image, but when she picked up her mother’s photograph that brought little consolation. It was five years now since they had stood at Ma’s graveside in Glasnevin Cemetery. No other family members had been present at the funeral. Da had alienated them all, as only he could.