Home Front Girls

Chapter One
     
    Coventry, November 1939
     
    ‘I’m sorry, darling, but the long and the short of it is, you will have to find yourself a job immediately.’
    ‘What!’ Annabelle Smythe’s beautiful blue eyes stretched wide with horror as she stared back at her mother, who was nervously wringing her hands. They were in Annabelle’s bedroom and the young woman leaped up and began to pace up and down the length of the soft flowered carpet as her pure silk dressing-gown swirled about her slim legs. Annabelle was twenty years old and had never done a day’s work in her entire life. Nor did she intend to. The only child of wealthy parents, she had been indulged in everything she had ever wanted from the moment her mother had held her in her arms, and she was not going to let that change now.
    ‘But why, Mummy?’ she whined as she raised a perfectly plucked, pencilled eyebrow. ‘Is it the latest clothing bill I ran up in town yesterday? I know I was a little extravagant, but I won’t do it again, I promise. It’s just that after I’d bought the new dress I had to have shoes and a handbag to go with it – and a coat, of course, didn’t I? And if what people are saying is true, then it’s going to be very hard to get hold of any decent clothes soon and you wouldn’t want me to walk about like a tramp, would you?’ She gazed at her mother imploringly.
    ‘Oh, Annabelle!’ Miranda Smythe sank down onto the bedroom chair, which was upholstered in a soft pink colour to match the bedding and the curtains. ‘You must realise, surely, that the war has affected Daddy’s business badly. People aren’t buying luxury cars any more and the thing is . . . Well, the truth of the matter is – we’re struggling a little bit.’
    ‘Hmph!’ Annabelle snatched a silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing-table and began to yank it through her shoulder-length blonde hair, which only that afternoon had been primped and teased into marcel waves at a hairdresser’s in the city centre. ‘Is that why you’ve sacked Mrs Fitton? It’s going to be horrible now, having no one to do our washing and ironing.’
    ‘I’m afraid it is,’ her mother replied as patiently as she could. She adored her daughter and would have walked over hot coals for her if need be, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wondered if she hadn’t spoiled her just a little too much. However, now she had started she ploughed on, ‘And you may as well know, Mrs Brookes will be finishing at the end of the week too.’
    ‘What! But who will do the cleaning and cooking then?’
    ‘We shall have to learn to do it ourselves,’ her mother replied steadily.
    ‘You must be joking, Mother!’ Annabelle spluttered, utterly horrified. She was not capable even of boiling an egg, and the thought of having to do menial things like cleaning and cooking was more than she could comprehend.
    ‘You have to accept that the war is affecting everyone, darling. We have been very lucky up to now, but we must all make sacrifices. I’m sure we shall manage admirably once we get into some sort of a routine. After all – how hard can it be?’
    Annabelle glared at her mother as she slammed the hairbrush back down, barely able to take in this unwelcome news. Her mother had always been so easy to get round. Usually the girl had only to drop her bottom lip and pout, and Miranda would give in to her every demand. But here she was now, telling her that she must learn to do her own cleaning and cooking as well as getting a job! It was preposterous! They had never taught her how to do domestic tasks at the expensive schools Daddy had sent her to. Needlework and piano lessons were the most gruelling things she had ever had to tackle up to now.
    ‘And just what sort of a job do you expect me to do?’ she snapped as she threw herself onto the bed.
    ‘Well, as it happens I heard that they are looking for staff in Owen Owen. You might enjoy shop work,’ her mother added hopefully.
    Annabelle couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to bow and scrape to awkward customers. She herself had often given shop staff a hard time; making them run here and there for things she wanted to look at, and now here was her mother daring to suggest that the roles should be reversed.
    ‘I don’t think Daddy would be too happy with your suggestions,’ she spat peevishly.
    ‘Actually . . . it was Daddy’s idea.’
    Annabelle felt the bottom drop out of her world. She had been praying that at