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  LIZZIE’S SECRET

  Rosie Clarke

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.aria-fiction.com

  About Lizzie’s Secret

  It’s 1939, and Lizzie Larch is a twenty-year-old hatmaker in London’s east end. She is happy and popular, but she carries a secret. Seven years ago she was viciously attacked, and recovered in a private sanatorium where she miscarried a child.

  Lizzie has no memory of the night of the attack, but secrets cannot stay secret for too long. When she starts courting her boss’s nephew, shocking revelations surface, and threaten to destroy their new-found happiness.

  Set in the East-End of London at the dawn of World War II, Lizzie’s Secret is about how ordinary people learn to survive – and triumph - through hardship and tragedy.

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Lizzie’s Secret

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  About Rosie Clarke

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Prologue

  It was dark, so dark and cold. The girl shivered as she heard the footsteps behind her. They were coming closer and the alley seemed endless. She would never reach safety before he caught up with her. The sound of his harsh breathing was close and she gave a cry of fear as she ran faster. She had to get away or he would catch her and then the nightmare would be real. Taking a deep breath, she ran harder and faster, but as fast as she ran he was always there, pursuing her down the dark alley, and she knew that whatever she did he would geter.

  ‘No, please no, don’t hurt me…’ She could smell the stink of foul breath and knew he was too strong for her and she screamed, but it was no good… no good…

  ‘Wake up,’ a strident voice broke into her nightmare. ‘It’s all right, girl. You’re quite safe here. You were just having a bad dream.’

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked, aware now of the narrow bed with its hard mattress and the low, shaded light. The woman standing over her was dressed in the uniform of a nurse, her dark hair peeping from beneath a white starched cap. ‘What happened to me? Where am I?’

  ‘You don’t remember – any of it?’ the nurse looked disbelieving.

  ‘No, I only know…’ She broke off as she realised she didn’t even know her own name. Fear scythed through her as she saw the bars on the windows. ‘Who am I – and why am I here?’

  ‘Don’t play games! You’ve been brought to this place because your aunt felt it impossible to keep you at home in the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’ The fear was rising in her, because she was gradually becoming aware that this was an institution of some kind and she somehow knew that she was a prisoner here. ‘Why am I in this place? What have I done? I want to go home…’ And yet she did not know where home was. ‘Please tell me where I am. What is this place?’

  ‘It’s an institution for fallen girls. Don’t worry; you’re only here until after the event. Your uncle insisted that they want you back – but your aunt wants to hush this up…’

  ‘Hush what up? What have I done?’

  ‘From what I gather it’s more a case of what someone else did to you,’ the nurse said. ‘You were attacked…’

  ‘Nurse Simpkins!’ A sharp voice cut in. ‘You know what Doctor said. No talking to this patient until he’s seen her.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister, but she was asking questions…’

  ‘Well, that’s an improvement, young lady,’ an older version of the nurse came into her view. ‘We’d begun to think you would never come back to us. I’ll tell Doctor you’re awake. Would you like a drink of water?’

  ‘Could I have a cup of tea please?’ She reached out to touch the Sister’s arm. ‘Please, why am I here? Have I done something wrong? Who am I?’

  ‘So many questions all at once. I think we’ll leave it to Doctor to explain – and just water at first. We don’t want you being sick all over the place. You’ve been asleep a long time…’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Doctor will explain. Rest now and my nurse has a glass of water for you.’

  ‘Little sips now,’ the nurse held the glass to her lips. She swallowed a few sips, found it more difficult than she’d expected and fell back against the pillows, her eyes closing.

  ‘I think she’s fallen asleep again…’

  ‘Yes, but it is a proper sleep this time. I daresay she’s exhausted…’

  ‘Do you think she really can’t recall anything?’

  The voices seemed to come from a long way off, as if she were shrouded by an impenetrable fog, their words making no sense, as she lost the battle to stay awake.

  ‘I think it’s genuine. She was very ill after the miscarriage – sometimes a long illness like that leaves the patient unable to recall, but the amnesia may not be permanent.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s best for her if she never remembers exactly what happened. She’ll grieve for the babe if she remembers it…’

  ‘We’re not supposed to get too friendly with these girls. They are here for discipline and because their families are ashamed of them…’

  ‘Yes, but she was attacked and raped…’

  ‘That’s enough, nurse. Perhaps this case is a little different, but the outcome was the same – the uncle and aunt wouldn’t have the child had she gone full term… at least, the uncle might have done, but she was set against it. It’s best the girl doesn’t know too much…’

  The darkness was claiming her. She was sinking back into its welcoming arms, shutting out everything, leaving all the pain and the distress behind. She wasn’t ready to know, didn’t want to remember, because it hurt too much and she wasn’t strong enough. If she once looked back and saw his face she would remember and that would be too painful…

  Chapter 1

  ‘Are you here for the job too?’ Lizzie Larch looked at the girl sitting next to her on the hard wooden chair. She was a pretty girl with soft fair hair and blue eyes. ‘I don’t reckon we stand much chance, do you?’

  It was 1939 and the country was still recovering from the deep depression that had gripped it for most of the thirties.

  ‘It depends how many jobs are going,’ the other girl replied. ‘I’m Beth Court. I’m after a job in the office…’

  ‘Do they want an office girl? I thought they were looking for seamstresses and apprentices to make hats?’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what they advertised,’ Beth offered her hand. ‘But when I asked abou
t the interview they said there would be a job for a typist too. I’m good at typing, but my shorthand isn’t fast enough.’

  ‘I’m not a trained seamstress, but I can sew, so I’m hoping to get the apprentice’s job.’

  ‘How old are you? I’m eighteen. I worked for two years in a cardboard factory but then took typing classes and shorthand. Girls in offices get more than a measly thirty-five bob a week…’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they do. I was in a canteen on the docks, earning more than two pounds, but I saw these jobs advertised and thought it would be better to learn a trade.’

  ‘Miss Beth Court please,’ a woman said and Beth looked nervously at Lizzie, pulling at the blue dress she was wearing under a dark jacket.

  ‘Well, good luck. I hope you get taken on…’

  ‘Good luck to you too,’ Lizzie glanced around at the opposition: twenty girls after two jobs. It was unlikely that Lizzie would be picked, especially since she had no experience. Aunt Jane had warned her it would be a waste of time, but Uncle Jack had supported her.

  ‘Why shouldn’t the girl have a chance of a better life,’ he had said. ‘If you’re thinking of that other business, don’t. Lizzie’s a good girl, aren’t you, love?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie had nodded. She knew why her aunt was so strict, of course she did. It was to do with that time she’d been so ill… Lizzie couldn’t remember much about it, but she knew she’d been in a sanatorium for a long time. She didn’t know why and she couldn’t remember much from before that time. She’d remembered her name after Doctor Morrison started to treat her, because he’d been kind and gentle, explaining that she’d had a nasty accident and hit her head.

  ‘You were concussed, Lizzie,’ he told her. ‘Because of that you’ve become confused. You were in another hospital before you came to me and they neglected you – but now we’re going to make you well. There is nothing to be frightened of now, Lizzie, my dear.’

  ‘Lizzie Larch…’ she’d repeated the words after him. ‘I live with Aunt Jane and her husband Uncle Jack…’

  ‘Your parents died years ago of diphtheria and your aunt kindly took you in. You can go home to her and your uncle when you’ve accepted who you are…’

  Lizzie had been fifteen then; she knew that because the doctor had told her so and that meant she must have had her accident when she was fourteen. She’d tried so hard to remember what had caused the accident, but all she knew was that she’d had a nasty fall and been very ill for a long time…

  ‘Miss Lizzie Larch, please…’

  A man of about forty was calling her. Wearing a well-worn suit of once-good pinstriped cloth, he didn’t strike her as being important at first glance and she thought he might be a clerk or something. Lizzie got to her feet and followed him, not into an office, as she expected, but to a large room where two men and three girls were working at benches. Hats were in various stages of development, piles of them everywhere. The floor was strewn with bits of felt, silk and cottons, and several pins. Girls were machining felt or sewing on feathers and trimmings, but the men were either cutting or shaping the hats with the aid of steamers and moulds.

  ‘This is the workroom. It’s where you’ll be working if we take you on as our apprentice, Miss Larch. What do you think of it?’

  Lizzie was fascinated. ‘It’s very busy, sir, and it looks interesting.’

  ‘Interesting, eh? Do you think you’d like to work here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if I were given a chance…’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘My aunt taught me to use a sewing machine. But I’d like to learn all of it – the cutting and the shaping and the trimming…’ She hesitated, then, ‘I’d like to design hats, sir…’

  ‘Would you indeed?’ he asked, his bright beady eyes intent on her face. He was a small man, wiry with a thin face, hair that was receding at the temples and faded grey eyes. ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Lizzie said honestly. ‘My aunt says it’s a waste of time, but Uncle Jack says my designs look pretty.’

  ‘Humph,’ the man grunted. ‘Well, we stick to fairly basic shapes here, Miss Larch, but I like a girl with ambition. You know we pay our apprentices twenty-five shillings a week?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know. But you pay more once I’m trained, don’t you?’

  ‘If you finish your six months training, I’ll pay you thirty-five shillings, and if you see the year out, I’ll pay you two pounds and ten shillings. After that, it depends how talented you are.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve got the job?’

  ‘You’re the only one who applied for it; the rest of them want to be seamstresses,’ he said. ‘I’m Bert Oliver – and I own this workshop. We sell to the retail trade. I shall expect you in at eight fifteen each morning. For a start you’ll be sweeping up and making tea, but we’ll teach you what you need to know – and we’ll see if you’re any good.’

  ‘Yes, sir – Mr Oliver,’ Lizzie felt a tingle of excitement. ‘Do I start on Monday?’

  ‘Do you have to give notice?’

  ‘I gave notice last week at the canteen and finished last Saturday.’

  ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’

  ‘I’m twenty next Saturday.’

  His brows rose. ‘You dress like a schoolgirl, Miss Larch. I thought you no more than seventeen at most.’

  Lizzie was too embarrassed to answer, because her aunt made her dresses and was very strict. Aunt Jane insisted that Lizzie should always be modest in her clothes and not attract attention.

  ‘We expect you to wear a plain dark skirt and blouse for work, or a smart black dress, and we provide an overall for in here, but you may serve in the showroom sometimes and for that you must wear black.’

  ‘I’ve got a grey skirt and some white blouses – if that will do?’

  ‘I prefer black but dark grey will do for now. Very well, Lizzie. Bring all your details of previous work in on Monday and give them to Mrs Moore; she will see to your wages on a Friday.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Oliver.’

  ‘And bring some of your designs in if you want. I might have a look at them when I have time…’

  Lizzie was still in shock. ‘Thank you, sir. I shall look forward to it…’

  ‘Off you go then, I’m in need of a trained seamstress and a cutter, though from what I’ve seen so far in the waiting room that looks like being a hopeless cause…’

  Lizzie returned to the waiting room still feeling bewildered and unsure whether she was dreaming.

  ‘Lizzie!’ Beth Court pounced on her. ‘I got my job – what about you?’

  ‘I’ve been taken on as an apprentice,’ Lizzie said. ‘My aunt won’t be pleased, because the wage is less than I was earning, but it’s what I want to do…’

  ‘That’s all that matters then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ Lizzie smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you got your job, Beth. It means I’ll be seeing you most days, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. They don’t have a canteen here. We have a staffroom where we can make a cup of tea and eat our sandwiches, if we like – but there’s a little café just down the road where we can go for a meal.’

  ‘I shan’t be able to afford that,’ Lizzie said. ‘Aunt Jane takes a pound of my money – that only leaves me five bob for everything.’

  ‘Surely she won’t expect you to pay so much now?’ Beth looked surprised. ‘I’m getting three pounds in the office for a start. It’s mostly invoices for the customers and some bookkeeping, and typing letters to suppliers…’

  ‘You must be clever to do that. I didn’t take my school certificate, because I was off school for more than a year.’

  ‘You don’t sound dumb to me…’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not. I read a lot and my uncle helped me with arithmetic and other things… but I didn’t know the proper work for the exams. My uncle says it’s a daft system anyway, and he thinks I’m clever at stuff like drawing…’

  ‘He sounds n
ice?’

  ‘Uncle Jack is lovely…’ Lizzie broke off with a sigh. ‘My aunt has such a sharp tongue and I don’t think I could bear to live at home if he wasn’t around…’

  ‘Sounds rotten for you,’ Beth said. ‘Look, why don’t you come and have lunch with us? Mum always cooks enough for an army…’

  ‘Could I really? Won’t she mind?’

  ‘Of course you can come,’ Beth said. ‘Mum always likes to meet my friends and she’s a wonderful cook. I know you’ll like her, Lizzie, and she will like you… and we’ll have a look round the market on the way…’

  *

  Lizzie loved the busy market with its colourful canopies and stalls piled high with produce that smelled gorgeous. One was crammed with various kinds of cheese, some of them unknown to her that smelled really strong. She stopped to look and asked the man behind the counter what the different cheeses were. He laughed and explained that the ones that smelled strong were ripe Brie and Stilton.

  Beth tugged at her arm and they walked on. The stalls were really busy and the cries of the costers were loud and sometimes shrill, all of them trying to be heard above the next man. The crowds were made up of lots of different peoples: local cockneys with their cheerful grins, greasy caps pulled over their heads; Jews with orthodox ringlets, beards, long black coats and black hats; men with dark complexions, turbans and traditional long gowns, their feet bare of socks and wearing string sandals; women in headscarves tied in a knot, showing just a glimpse of hair, and aprons that crossed over at the front, on their break from the jam factory just down the road.

  On one side of the road there was a pawn shop with the sign of the three balls over its door and a few tarnished articles on show; most of the stock was inside, tucked away in the safe, waiting for its owners to reclaim it when they had the money. Next to it was one of the Greenspan trading grocery stores and then a hardware shop and a pub with its sign in black and gold lettering and a picture of a king’s head, adjoining it; a tobacconist store with penknives, cigarette cases and signs, and a rack of pipes in its window made up the row of shops. Further on was a Jewish synagogue and next to that a building with the name of a clothing manufacturer over its dirty windows, which were blocked out with grubby blinds. Beth told Lizzie it was a sweatshop and the seamstresses who worked there were made to do impossibly long hours.