A New Start for the Wrens Read online

  A New Start for the Wrens

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Vicki Beeby

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  As ever, for my family:

  Mum

  Duncan, Jana & Emma

  Chris, Katka & Elena

  Chapter One

  June 1941

  ‘You’re not going out in those, are you?’

  Iris’s heart sank at her mother’s scathing tones. She paused, dropping her hand from her coat, which she had been about to pull on. Letitia Tredwick had emerged from the drawing room before Iris was able to make her escape, and now pointed at the high-waisted, wide-legged trousers Iris had slaved over for hours, modelling them on a pair she’d seen in Vogue.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ In her opinion, they were the height of elegance, and would ensure George only had eyes for her. ‘Katharine Hepburn wears slacks just like these.’

  ‘Darling, they might be suitable for Americans, but they’re not at all the done thing for nice young girls in England. I’m sure George would be shocked if he could see you. Why don’t you put on your navy polka dot dress? Far more suitable.’

  While it was framed as a question, Iris had no doubt her mother meant it as a command. She had looked forward to seeing George’s admiration when he saw her in her latest creation, though, so she tried again. ‘I don’t really have time to change.’

  Letitia waved away her objection. ‘He’ll expect you to be a few minutes late. You don’t want to look too keen. He should be the one doing the chasing.’

  Iris gave up and raced back upstairs to her bedroom. At least when she was married, she would no longer be under her mother’s thumb, and she was determined that today was the day she persuaded George to propose. She took off the trousers and pale blue ribbed sweater and stowed them carefully in the wardrobe, giving the trousers a regretful stroke before pulling out her polka dot dress. They had displayed her elegant, willowy figure to perfection, and the blue of the sweater had matched her eyes. Wearing a dress also meant wearing stockings. Thankfully, last week’s announcement introducing clothes rationing hadn’t caught Iris as unprepared as it seemed to have caught most women. She had a good supply of silk stockings, and as long as she treated them with care, she was confident she could make them last. A keen dressmaker, she had lavished her generous allowance on fabrics that caught her eye on her regular shopping trips, and the large antique chest where she stored them was now so full the lid didn’t close. While other women might be lamenting the impossibility of making their clothes coupons stretch, Iris would have no trouble making new outfits even if the war lasted a decade.

  When she dashed downstairs a few minutes later, she found Letitia still there. Her mother looked her up and down and gave an approving nod. ‘That’s better. Much more suitable for the future mistress of Sherbrook Manor. George comes from an old family, remember. He won’t want a wife who dresses like she’s from new money.’

  ‘But we’re not new money, Mummy. George knows that.’ Their family had lived in Tredwick Place in this leafy valley in the Chiltern Hills for four hundred years. Iris had dropped that into conversation soon after they had met, ensuring her suitability as his wife was clear from the start.

  ‘Even so. You want to show him you will make the perfect wife and will uphold the standards expected of a member of the Silverwood family.’

  Her mother was right, Iris reflected as she set out on the mile-long walk to West Wycombe. George was in the RAF, attached to Bomber Command at RAF High Wycombe, and didn’t get much time off, poor dear. Iris was forever suggesting times when they could meet, but he wasn’t often free. George was clearly smitten with her, yet had frustratingly remained oblivious to all her hints that she was open to a proposal of marriage. Today, she was determined to get him to utter the question he was obviously too shy to ask.

  Iris was all too aware that time was running out.

  She strode down Tredwick Place’s tree-lined drive, glancing at her watch after every few paces; George was terribly busy and not to be kept waiting. Through the gates, she turned onto the West Wycombe lane only to bump into an old classmate from Wycombe Abbey School coming around the corner. Felicity lived only a few miles away and they were the only two girls in the area that had attended the prestigious girls’ boarding school. Therefore, they had often been placed together in village functions, as people assumed they must be friends. In fact, although they didn’t dislike each other, they had never been close. For some reason, Felicity had never laughed along with Iris’s jokes or shown any desire to be friends, so Iris had eventually given up. It had been something of a relief to take her Higher School Certificate and leave school the summer before the war had broken out, for she hadn’t seemed to have the knack of making friends.

  Felicity gave a visible start when she glanced in Iris’s direction, and her expression froze. Trying not to let her discouragement show, Iris gave Felicity a pleasant smile.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here. You weren’t coming to see me, were you?’

  ‘Iris. Lovely to see you.’ Felicity’s fixed smile didn’t altogether support this statement. ‘No, actually I’ve just been into Wycombe and got off the bus a stop early. It’s such a pleasant walk from here.’ Her cheeks were a little pink. However, it was a sunny day, so maybe she was just warm from her walk.

  ‘What were you doing in Wycombe?’

  ‘I just applied to join the ATS.’

  ‘The ATS? My goodness. What did you do that for? You’ll look a fright in khaki.’ Iris couldn’t imagine giving up her life of comfort to spend her days in an ill-fitting uniform, and certainly not one that would make her look sallow.

  ‘They say all young unmarried women will be made to do war work soon. I heard that if you volunteered, you were more likely to get your choice of job, and I want to be a driver.’

  Iris had heard this too, but had paid it little heed. ‘That doesn’t really apply to me. Do you remember George?’

  Iris had first met George at a dance in High Wycombe that Felicity had also attended. They had both been sitting at the same table when George had approached them. George was a rather shy, serious young man. To be honest, he wasn’t the dashing, heroic type she had always dreamed of, but, as Letitia had told her at the time, she couldn’t expect a man to be like the heroes she saw in the pictures. In real life, men didn’t know their own minds and needed encouraging. But she had known he liked her by the way he ignored her and spoke to Felicity. A shy man like George couldn’t approach her directly and taking an interest in her friend was his way of making it known that he was interested in Iris. When George had stammered out that there was a good film on at the Majestic cinema in Wycombe, Iris had taken his arm and exclaimed that she would love to go with him. Felicity had said that she couldn’t make that night, and Iris had felt embarrassed on her behalf for not understanding that George wanted to go on a date with Iris.

  Now Felicity nodded, seeming absorbed in picking a loose thread from her sleeve. ‘George Silverwood?’ Her cheeks turned pinker. Poor girl. It looked like she still carried a torch for him.

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been seeing rather a lot of him. Isn’t it wonderful he’s based at Naphill? So many young couples are separated by hundreds of miles these days.’ A nagging feeling prodded the back of her mind that she was being unkind to elaborate on how much she and George were seeing of each other. However, she was too excited to keep it in. ‘In fact’ – she lowered her voice, even though there was no one else around – ‘I think he’s working himself up to propose.’

  ‘Propose?’ Felicity’s head snapped up and she regarded Iris with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  Her tone of disbelief nettled Iris, making her forget she felt sorry for Felicity having no beau. ‘Well, I suppose I could be mistaken, but he’s so fond of me, the dear.’ In fact, Iris had no doubt. Last time they had met, he had tried several times to say something, but when Iris had fixed her gaze upon him, smiling to show she was ready to give a favourable reply, he had changed the subject and talked of the weather or the rationed food he missed most. It had been all very frustrating. She was confident, though, that today she would be able to coax him into a proposal.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, hoisting her gas mask over her shoulder, ‘I mustn’t keep him waiting.’

  Iris spared only a few moments feeling sorry for Felicity after they’d parted. She was a pretty girl, even if she wasn
’t blessed with the same fashionably willowy figure as Iris and had mousy brown hair instead of Iris’s golden waves. Felicity would soon get over her disappointment and, if she joined the ATS as a driver, was bound to meet plenty of army officers. Maybe they would be prepared to look past the unfortunate colour of her uniform. If Iris wasn’t going to marry George, and would therefore be forced to do war work, she wouldn’t be seen dead in khaki. The blue WAAF uniform would suit her better.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t something she had to give serious consideration to, as she would in all likelihood soon be married and mistress of Sherbrook Manor.

  George was waiting for her in a tea room in West Wycombe. She knew he was there because his car, a shiny green Morris Eight, was parked on the street outside the pretty row of half-timbered buildings. Although it was an easy walk from Tredwick Place to West Wycombe, Iris was a little annoyed that he hadn’t come to pick her up. Still, she fixed a smile on her face as she walked into the tea room. There was George, looking very smart in his uniform, the three rings on his sleeve denoting the rank of Squadron Leader clearly on display. No doubt about it, he was the perfect match for Iris.

  His face wore a strained expression when he rose to greet her, and Iris’s heart melted. Any uncertainty she might have had about his feelings disappeared. This was exactly how she had imagined he would look as he mentally rehearsed his proposal, worrying about her response. When he went to shake her hand, she daringly leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, to show him he had nothing to fear. He had chosen a table in the window, and Iris mentally commended his choice, happy that this important moment in her life would be set against the backdrop of this pretty street, accompanied by the scent of roses drifting through the open casement. They were the only couple in the shop – the other tables were occupied by housewives, their shopping bundled under the tables while they sipped their tea. Iris was acutely aware of eyes on herself and George as they ordered tea and fruitcake. Clearly, they were the most interesting thing in the village.

  ‘Isn’t this the perfect day?’ Iris said when their food and drinks arrived. She indicated the blue sky and quaint village scene. ‘So romantic,’ she added, in case George still needed encouragement.

  The furrows on George’s brow deepened, and he raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Actually, Iris, I’ve got something serious I really need to say.’

  Iris leaned forward, her heart pounding. This was it. This was the moment. She wanted to remember every detail, so that in years to come, when their children asked them how George had proposed, she would be able to tell them all about it. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s about us. Or…’ Then his face screwed up in a prelude to a sneeze. ‘Dash it… hay fever,’ he muttered. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and a small jeweller’s box rolled onto the table. He was too busy sneezing to notice, but Iris picked it up with trembling hands and eased the lid open. Inside was a gold ring with a large oval rose-cut diamond, flanked with a ruby on either side.

  ‘Oh, George, it’s beautiful.’ Around the room she was aware of the other women falling silent and making no attempt to conceal their interest. ‘Of course I’ll marry you.’ While he hadn’t exactly asked, it was obvious he had been working up to it.

  She slipped the ring onto her finger, and heard soft sighs around the room. George, bless him, was staring at her as though he had been struck by lightning, clearly too overcome with joy to say anything.

  She leaned across the table and kissed him on the cheek. George remained frozen, his expression of shock making her laugh. ‘Oh, there’s so much we need to discuss. I can’t wait to tell Mother. Do you think you’ll be able to get leave in September? That would be the best month for the wedding, I think.’

  A woman approached the table. ‘Can I see the ring?’ she asked.

  Iris, beaming, held out her left hand. If she was honest, the ring was a little heavy and old-fashioned for her taste but the main thing was that he had finally got his act together and popped the question. Well, he hadn’t asked exactly, but the story of the sneeze and the ring falling out of his pocket pre-empting the question would make an entertaining story in years to come.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that gorgeous,’ the woman said. ‘You two make a lovely couple. I was just saying so to my friend. Congratulations to you both.’

  George bestirred himself enough to give a rather strained smile and thank her.

  Once the woman had returned to her table, Iris said, ‘Mother will be so thrilled. Such a pity Daddy is away.’ For her father, who had been in the Royal Naval Reserve before the war, had been called up on the commencement of war. ‘Still, he’ll be so pleased when he hears. I must write to him tonight. Will you come up to the house? There’s so much to organise.’

  George glanced at his watch. ‘I must get back to base. I’ll… be in touch soon.’

  ‘Oh.’ Iris felt a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to parading George in front of her mother. Then she brightened. ‘Never mind. I dare say you won’t have time for wedding plans, but leave it to my mother and me. Such a pity Sherbrook Manor has been requisitioned, or we could have held the reception there. Still, there’s plenty of space at Tredwick Place.’ She laughed. ‘Oh, that rhymes!’ She was still talking while George paid for their food and hadn’t finished when he made a dash for his car.

  * * *

  Iris was still ecstatic the next day as she sat in the morning room with her mother, pencil and notebook in front of her as they discussed plans.

  ‘I’m so pleased you won’t have to do any war work,’ Letitia said, ringing the bell for tea. ‘I wouldn’t want to see you mixing with girls of inferior upbringing.’ Then she smiled. ‘Sherbrook Manor. Your father will be so proud. And it’s a weight off my mind. There’s no danger of you ending up like your Aunt Sybil.’

  Aunt Sybil’s fate had loomed heavily over Iris’s life. Letitia’s younger sister had married beneath her. ‘To a completely unsuitable man,’ Letitia would always say when speaking of her sister’s marriage, pulling a face as though there were a bad smell under her nose. Sybil’s husband had then promptly got himself killed in the Great War, leaving Sybil with nothing more than a meagre widow’s pension. Iris had never met Aunt Sybil; from what Letitia let slip, Iris had an impression of a slatternly woman drinking herself into oblivion. She didn’t sound like someone Iris would want to meet, and certainly not someone whose fate she wanted to share.

  Of course, she no longer had to worry about that. George came from one of the wealthiest families in the land. Not only did he own Sherbrook Manor in neighbouring Oxfordshire, but he had a large house in Mayfair and several other properties around the country. It was a pity that Sherbrook Manor had been requisitioned as a girls’ school for the duration of the war, but Iris was sure she had heard George mention a house in Cornwall with its own private cove. Yes, that would make the ideal place to live until the war was over.

  Mrs Webb, their housekeeper, entered the room, teacups rattling on the tray she carried. ‘The post’s arrived.’ She handed three envelopes to Letitia and one to Iris. ‘And Mrs Hill from the WI just phoned,’ she said to Letitia. ‘She would like to know if her ladies can pick strawberries from your garden for jam.’

  Letitia rose. ‘I’d better get back to her. We must be seen to be doing our bit.’ She followed Mrs Webb out of the room.

  Iris looked at her letter and recognised George’s handwriting. With a flutter of excitement, she thought he must have already spoken to his commanding officer and got permission to marry. Perhaps he even knew the dates he would be available. She picked up her mother’s silver letter opener and slit open the envelope.

  Dear Iris,

  This is not an easy letter to write, and I hope you will excuse me for writing what I should have told you in person yesterday. However, with all those women watching, I found it impossible to tell you the truth. Before this sham continues any longer, I must put an end to this unfortunate misunderstanding.

  Iris’s heart gave a lurch. Sham? Misunderstanding? What did he mean? She had always made it perfectly clear that she wanted to be his wife. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet over the amount of time they would be forced to spend apart while the war lasted. It would be just like him to get all chivalrous and have reservations over leaving her alone, but she would be perfectly happy. Already, she was composing a reassuring reply in her head as she read on.