Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane Page B

table, wardrobe and chest of drawers had once belonged to their grandparents. There was something safe and solid about the rich mahogany, the solid lines, the heavy brass handles on the drawers and the wardrobe doors.
    Frances was lying face down on the single bed positioned in the alcove at one end of the room which ran the full length of the house. It wasn’t much in the way of privacy but served its purpose and each of them had plenty of space.
    Her cousin’s shoulders were shaking following a period of sobbing.
    ‘Frances?’ Mary sat down on the edge of the bed, then reached out and gently stroked the dark hair, so similar to her own and the rest of the family.
    Frances’s hair was usually fastened in two thick braids. Right now it was undone, two white ribbons thrown on to the floor, and each braid half undone.
    ‘Is it the war?’ Mary asked softly.
    Frances nodded into her pillow.
    Mary smiled. ‘You mustn’t be frightened. Nothing bad will happen to you, and besides, our country hasn’t fired a shot yet. They might still come to some agreement.’
    In her heart Mary thought it unlikely. The German regime had swallowed up half of Europe. Unless they backtracked pretty quickly, the war would most definitely occur.
    ‘I can’t … help … it,’ Frances snivelled into her pillow. ‘What if we get bombed? What if you all die? You’re the only family I’ve got left!’
    Mary smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t think that’s likely to happen. After all, Oldland Common is only a village and we’re on the outskirts of Bristol.’
    It occurred to Mary that they weren’t far from the aircraft factories at Filton so might be in more danger than first imagined. Best not to say it, she decided. Frances was frightened enough.
    ‘Will soldiers march in?’
    ‘I take it you mean German soldiers.’
    Frances nodded.
    ‘They’ll have to be very good swimmers. They have to cross the English Channel before they come marching in. Invading England isn’t that easy. It never has been, in fact it’s been nearly a thousand years since the last time it happened.’
    Frances turned her big brown eyes on her. ‘Really?’
    Grateful she’d paid attention in the history lesson about William the Conqueror in the year 1066, Mary said that it was indeed the case.
    ‘I don’t … want … to lose my family … I’m frightened.’
    Mary raised her from the bed and wrapped her arms around her, the girl’s head resting on her shoulder.
    ‘You mustn’t think that way. No matter what happens, I’ll always be there for you.’
    She closed her eyes as she said it. Poor little Frances. She’d never realised before that the cheeky grin and effervescent vitality hid such a sensitive little soul. She felt for her.
    Uncle Sefton had died of injuries sustained during the Great War when Frances was only four years old. Apparently a piece of shrapnel had altered position, sawed through a blood vessel and caused internal bleeding. The bleeding had not been noticed until it was too late.
    Her mother, Mildred, unable to face the responsibilities of raising a child on her own and with nothing but a war widow’s pension, had taken off. Nothing had been heard of her since.
    Stan had taken the child in, caring for her as he did his own. At times a little wild, they had all accepted Frances more as a baby sister than a cousin. The girl needed a mother figure, and if it had to be Mary, then so be it.
    Mary stroked her cousin’s hair away from her hot forehead.
    ‘Anyway, there’s still time. It may never happen. A pilot in the RAF told me that,’ she said, hoping to reassure the girl.
    ‘Did he?’
    Mary thought about her ripped dress and the black dog. She also thought about Michael Dangerfield.
    On reflection, there had been a lot to like about Michael Dangerfield. She now very much regretted running off like that, almost as though she’d expected the bakery to be surrounded by an invading army when she got home; he must have thought her a