Goodnight Sweetheart Read online

  GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART

  Pam Weaver

  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 2020

  Copyright © Pam Weaver 2020

  Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover photographs © Heritage Partnership Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo (station), Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images (woman)

  Pam Weaver 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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: 9780008410766

  Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008408435

  Version: 2020-04-28

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the GI father I never knew.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  Keep reading to discover recipes inspired by the book and to read a special short story from Pam Weaver

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  About the Publisher

  One

  Broadwater, Sussex, 1933

  Ten-year-old Frankie Sherwood pulled her skirts over her bare legs and tucked her feet under her body. She was an attractive child with clear blue eyes and blonde hair. Although small for her age, what she lacked in height she made up for in her personality. A bright and determined girl, she always did her best. Pressing herself into the tree trunk, she felt the long grass swish back and surround her – but was she hidden enough? Her heart was racing. This was so exciting.

  As she looked back the way she had come, Frankie saw her friend Jenny Ruddock standing to attention behind a tree. She would be easy to find. Doreen Toms had jumped into a ditch so she was well hidden. Further down in the more open space, Frankie’s mother was still counting. ‘Nine, ten, eleven …’

  The long bramble branch Frankie had lifted in order to tuck herself right into the hollow of the tree flopped back down. That was a bit of luck. Now she was completely enclosed behind the green leaves and its blackberries, but all the same, she breathed in to make herself even smaller.

  Frankie grinned to herself. What a wonderful birthday she was having. For a start, it was a beautiful day. The late summer sun was warm. A bee flew by making a soft humming noise. Somewhere in the open space, a bird sang and in the far distance, a dog, probably out for a walk with its owner, barked happily. Frankie loved it up here on Hillbarn with its wide open spaces surrounded by trees and bushes. Mummy had told her that long ago the Worthing Rotary Club had given the land to the Corporation for the local football club who had created five football pitches. The rest of the land was for the locals but she and mummy might not be able to walk around much longer because there was talk of creating a golf course. Thank goodness it hadn’t happened yet. The other reason why she was happy was because Mrs Ruddock had helped mummy to carry some picnic food in a big bag along with a grey blanket.

  Frankie liked Mrs Ruddock. She was about the same age as mummy but she didn’t go out to work. Mrs Ruddock did a lot of swimming in the sea. The family had a beach chalet near Splash Point in Worthing and in the summer she asked Frankie if she would like to come so that Jenny had someone to play with. That was fun and it didn’t even matter if it rained.

  Mrs Toms, on the other hand, didn’t join in anything much but mummy said not to say anything probably because Mrs Toms didn’t have a lot of money. Frankie felt sorry about that, but Mrs Toms wasn’t a very nice lady. When they were carrying the things for the picnic, Mrs Toms said she was nobody’s skivvy and would only carry the flasks and the lemonade. They had set down the blanket and enjoyed fish paste sandwiches and egg and salad cream sandwiches together. Then, while the three girls ran around, the mums spent a pleasant hour relaxing in the sunshine. When Frankie and her friends grew bored, they had left the other mums on the blanket having a chin-wag, while Frankie’s mum joined them in a game of hide and seek.

  ‘Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …’

  Frankie couldn’t resist moving the bramble branch over a bit. Now she could see her mother. She stood with her back to them, her head up and her hands covering her eyes.

  ‘Twenty-six, twenty-seven …’

  Frankie felt a surge of love and pride. An attractive thirty-four-year-old, Moira Sherwood worked hard to keep a roof over their heads. As a dressmaker she was hugely popular and as a result she was busy, busy, busy. Sometimes it felt as though people were coming to the house for fittings all day long. And why not? Moira could turn her hand to anything: wedding dresses, dresses for bridesmaids, even school uniforms; there was always a half-finished garment either on the dressmaker’s dummy or hanging from the picture rail. Sometimes she altered men’s clothing as well – a trouser leg which was too long or a jacket sleeve which needed to be invisibly mended. She didn’t always charge them for it. If they were down on their luck or something she’d say, ‘Pay me when you can.’ Mummy never minded helping people out, although Doreen said her mum said it wasn’t seemly. Frankie had no idea what that meant but it didn’t sound very nice to say it. Mummy of
ten worked long into the night to get an order ready and when that happened, she didn’t have time to play games or to tell Frankie one of the lovely stories about her colourful life. But today was different. When they’d got up that morning, mummy said whatever needed to be done could jolly well wait. Today was September 3rd, Frankie’s tenth birthday. Today was the day she went into double figures and that made it extra special.

  ‘Thirty-nine, forty …’

  Even though mummy was so busy, Frankie had a happy childhood. She was surrounded by people she loved and all mummy’s clients were nice to her. All except young Mr Knight. Old Mr Knight had been their landlord and years ago he’d been daddy’s teacher in school. Frankie would have liked to have known a little more about her father but she didn’t like to ask. Daddy had died in 1925 when Frankie was just over a year old. Mummy said he’d got a weak chest and he’d caught the noo-moan-ea. Mummy had loved him very much and she always said he’d adored Frankie, but Frankie couldn’t even remember him. Sometimes when mummy talked about daddy, she would shut herself away afterwards, and have a little cry, so Frankie kept her thoughts to herself. And now she would never even know about daddy’s school days because, earlier this year, old Mr Knight had died and young Mr Knight had taken over.

  ‘Forty-nine, fifty,’ her mother called, ‘I’m coming, ready or not.’

  Frankie shivered with excitement and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. After a few seconds she could hear her mother’s footsteps coming closer. She held her breath. Perhaps the hiding place she’d chosen wasn’t so good after all. A wave of disappointment surged through her at the thought and although she stayed perfectly still, she quite expected her mother to tap her on the shoulder at any moment.

  ‘I see you, Jenny,’ her mother called and Frankie heard Jenny groan as she emerged from behind the tree. Frankie held her breath again as her mother’s footsteps came right up to her, but then to her utter joy, her mother moved on!

  ‘Frankie,’ she called, ‘where are you? And I can’t think where Doreen is hiding. She must be somewhere around here.’

  On the picnic blanket, the other mums chatted. Every now and then, snatches of conversation drifted towards Frankie. It was all a bit boring: the price of coal and how difficult it was to get it at summer prices and Mr Ruddock’s boil which kept him away from his chemist shop for three days.

  ‘I’ve asked Mrs Sherwood to make Jenny some gym slips for school,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘She’s very good.’

  ‘I don’t want my Doreen to have anything home-made,’ Mrs Toms said sniffily.

  Frankie struggled not to giggle as she saw her mother walking on up towards the top of the lane where the fabulous views of the Downs spread out for miles. Hillbarn was on the outskirts of Worthing, in an area north of the village of Broadwater and surrounded by farm land. In days gone by, the village had been a focal point for Easter Fairs and a June Fair when people came from miles around. Broadwater Green itself had been the home of cricket since the beginning of the eighteenth century and somebody called W.G. Grace, who was, apparently, very famous a long time ago, had played there. Frankie had learned all that at school, and men still played cricket on the green.

  A moment later, her mother must have turned back because Frankie heard her say, ‘Ah, there you are, pickle! How clever you are. I was looking everywhere.’

  She lifted the bramble branch and Frankie stood up. ‘The only one I can’t find is Doreen,’ said Moira. Frankie and Jenny looked at each other and grinned. Moira began to search once more. ‘I see you,’ said Moira at last and Doreen emerged from the ditch. ‘I hope you haven’t got wet.’

  Fortunately the ditch was bone dry and once mummy had brushed the dirt from Doreen’s knees, she was fine. Frankie’s friends ran back towards the picnic blanket where Mrs Ruddock was blowing smoke rings with her cigarette. Sitting a little apart, Mrs Toms watched her with pursed lips. A little later, they heard her scolding her daughter for hiding in the dirty ditch.

  Before they went back to the others, Moira gave her daughter a hug and then said, ‘Just look at all those blackberries. Quick, Frankie, go back and ask the other mummies to bring the empty tin I used for the sandwiches. We must pick some while we’re up here. It would be a shame to miss out on an apple and blackberry pie.’

  Everyone, except Mrs Toms and Doreen, spent the next twenty minutes or so picking the luscious blackberries. Some were as big as a penny and as far as Frankie was concerned, very few of the ones she’d picked ended up in the tin. Doreen wasn’t allowed any because her mother said you didn’t know what animal had been sniffing around them and it wasn’t healthy.

  ‘I had no idea there were so many up here,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘My mother-in-law is coming tomorrow for Sunday lunch. I shall get Mrs Brown to make a blackberry fool.’ Mrs Brown was her cleaning lady.

  The girls were soon bored. The brambles scratched their arms and most of the berries were too high for them to reach. After a while they gave up and chased butterflies or picked wild flowers instead. All too soon, their mothers were saying it was time to go and they all trooped back to Frankie’s place, where her mother promised to make a pot of tea while Frankie opened her presents.

  Doreen Toms had given her a magic painting book. ‘You only need to make your brush wet,’ Mrs Toms explained. ‘As soon as the water touches it, the colours come through.’

  Frankie leafed through the pages of the book. It seemed very babyish.

  ‘I had one like that for Christmas,’ Doreen remarked and her mother flashed her a dark look. Doreen didn’t seem to notice because she added, ‘but I lost it.’

  Doreen was almost jolted out of her chair by her mother’s elbow.

  ‘What do you say?’ Moira reminded her daughter as she passed the cups of tea around.

  ‘Thank you,’ Frankie said dutifully.

  As Moira sat with her own cup she rubbed her arm.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Mrs Ruddock asked, concerned.

  Moira shook her head. ‘Bit achy, that’s all. Probably all that reaching up for those blackberries.’

  Jenny’s present was a hair slide with little green rhinestones on it. She also gave Frankie three different pieces of coloured ribbon for her hair. Frankie smiled. ‘Ooh, thank you,’ she said, holding up the red ribbon.

  ‘That will go perfectly with the jumper Aunt Bet sent in the post,’ her mother remarked.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Frankie, holding still for her mother to fasten the hair slide.

  It was then that mummy handed Frankie a shoe box tied with pink ribbon. ‘And this is from me,’ she said.

  Frankie’s eyes lit up. Her friends stared enviously as she slid the ribbon carefully from the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a doll. Not just any old doll but a beautiful dolly dressed in an exquisite pale blue satin dress. As Frankie lifted it from the box, she heard a collective gasp.

  ‘Oh, Moira,’ said Mrs Ruddock. ‘Did you dress it yourself? It’s gorgeous.’

  Rubbing the top of her left arm again, Moira gave them a nod. ‘I’ve been saving the material for ages.’

  Everyone knew nothing was wasted as far as Moira Sherwood was concerned. Her clients bought the material for their garments and once it had been cut and sewn, any pieces left over, big or small, went into a pillowcase Moira kept hanging on the door for the purpose. From those same pieces she would make baby clothes for the new born, cot quilts, pram covers, even the odd patchwork cushion cover. This doll was exceptional. The women could see the love which had gone into every stitch. Frankie lifted her skirts to reveal some pale pink pantaloons (bridesmaid’s material), a silk petticoat (from an alteration of an evening dress into a cocktail dress), a pale blue satin skirt (from the nightdress of someone’s wedding trousseau), a white broderie anglaise blouse with blue ribbon on the cuffs and a ruffle at the neck (made from bits which had been in the pillowcase for so long that Moira had forgotten where they came from), and, finally, a neatly embroidered waistcoat with tiny glass buttons down the
front. Frankie held her up to her face and kissed the doll’s lips. She had fallen in love with her the minute she’d set eyes on her. She was so beautiful. ‘She’s my Russian princess.’

  Everyone glanced admiringly at Moira but she only had eyes for her daughter. ‘I thought you would say that,’ she smiled.

  ‘Russian princess?’ Mrs Ruddock repeated.

  ‘Frankie loves to hear the story of the time I made an ensemble for the Princess Alexeievna,’ said Moira, the exotic name slipping easily off her tongue.

  ‘What, a princess came here? To Worthing?’ Mrs Toms asked breathlessly.

  ‘No,’ said Moira with a chuckle. ‘It was a long time ago when I was working in London. She came to the dressmaker where I trained.’

  ‘Are you sure she was a real princess?’ said Mrs Ruddock.

  Moira nodded. ‘Not only that, but she was very beautiful as well. She still is. I saw her picture in a magazine not so long ago. Of course, she’s married now, to a Baron von somebody-or-other. Bit of a come-down, I suppose, but considering what happened to the rest of the Russian royal family soon after she arrived in this country, I guess you could say she got off lightly.’

  Everyone was spell-bound. Frankie ran her fingers over the dolly’s skirt, the waistcoat and the tiny little buttons, wondering if some of the older materials could have belonged to the Russian princess. The doll’s straw hat was decorated with tiny pieces of wax fruit. Could that have been hers? No, now she thought about it, she recalled seeing the same fruit on a pretty jewellery case her mother made for someone’s twenty-first birthday. Apparently the client was going to fill the case with family heirlooms: a string of pearls which belonged to the girl’s grandmother, a ring belonging to an old aunt, and some earrings her mother had worn on her wedding day. Right there and then, Frankie made up her mind that this dolly would be her family heirloom. She would play with it, of course, but she would be very, very careful.

  ‘Tell them about when the bad man came for the princess, Mummy,’ Frankie said, looking up at her mother.

  ‘I’m sure nobody wants to hear about that,’ her mother said, pouring herself another cup of tea.