Rachel's Secret Read online

  About the Book

  In 1943 two schoolgirls, Rachel and Meriel, best friends in the Cathedral city where they have grown up, amuse themselves by tracking down imaginary German spies. It all seems a harmless way of whiling away the long school holidays . . . until their game turns into a frightening reality, the consequences of which affect their whole lives.

  Rachel becomes a reporter on the local paper while Meriel, a GI bride, goes to live in Florida. But the bonds which hold them together can never be broken, as the secrets and scandals which first surfaced in those far-off wartime days eventually come to light.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  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

  About the Author

  Also by Susan Sallis

  Copyright

  Rachel’s Secret

  Susan Sallis

  For my friends

  One

  WE WERE SITTING on our bikes, feet down on the rough road, the August afternoon stretching ahead promising total boredom. We had spent the morning at my house, half a mile down the rough road; I had tried to cut Meriel’s hair into short curls like Ingrid Bergman’s in For Whom the Bell Tolls, which we had seen four times already. Actually, I had done a good job, but Meriel’s face was not a bit like Ingrid’s and it hadn’t quite worked. She was in a really bad mood.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced bleakly, scuffing the toe of her sandal into the accumulated grit where the road met the grass verge.

  ‘How can you be? You had four sandwiches—’

  ‘Not a smear of butter. Just bread and jam. You have to have butter to call two slices of bread a sandwich.’

  ‘I told you. Mum mixes the marg and the butter and some dried egg – it’s better than plain butter and goes further.’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything except bread and jam.’

  I began to feel exasperated: she was never normally like this.

  ‘I told you that, too. The butter spread has all gone and Mum hasn’t made the batch for this week, and if you think I was going to break into the rations—’

  ‘Are you frightened of your parents?’

  ‘Of course not! But Mum really slaves at that Ministry of Defence place and then comes home and has to make a meal from nothing—’

  ‘Why don’t you do it, then?’

  ‘I do my own breakfast and get something at midday,’ I said sullenly, knowing by now where this was going. It cropped up with other so-called friends but rarely with Meriel. In fact I couldn’t remember Meriel ever telling me the obvious: that I was an only child and spoiled to death.

  But suddenly, in the generous way Meriel so often did, she said, ‘My mum won’t let me do the evening stuff either. It seems I waste more than I cook!’

  We both laughed, relieved. Then Meriel said, ‘Look. If we’re not going to report a German paratrooper over in the fields, what else are we going to do all afternoon?’

  I had already suggested my favourite thing, which was cycling in to Gloucester and seeing if any of the ancient cathedral staff would let us play in the whispering gallery. They always did because they knew us, and they hoped that if they let us soak up the atmosphere we would become religious. The poor things were desperate. But, as Meriel had pointed out, the cathedral was for wet and windy days and today was blazing August-hot. And we’d done the paratrooper sighting before and been roundly told off for wasting the Home Guard’s time.

  ‘We could rebuild our dam down on Twyver’s Brook.’

  Meriel shuddered. ‘I couldn’t bear it if another of those little fish got caught in the twigs. If you hadn’t smashed up the bloody dam and let it swim free I’d still be standing there crying!’

  She hadn’t actually cried, but I had known she was very close to it. She said sometimes that she preferred animals to people. Trouble was, she was also afraid of them, and she could not have gone near that dam.

  I said admiringly, ‘You swore then.’

  ‘So I did. Tell you what, let’s knock on Hermione’s door, and if her mum answers I could try a bloody on her.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, she’d take it out on Hermione.’

  Meriel thought about it. ‘God. Yes. That’s how it works, isn’t it? Revenge. You don’t always go for the culprit. You go for someone who can’t hit back. That’s why Dad does . . . what he does. Because he knows he’s hurting Mum.’

  I frowned. We didn’t often talk about Meriel’s dad but when we did it was the rule that we were very matter-of-fact. So I said, ‘Well . . . I see what you mean, but who is the real culprit, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe it is Mum . . . for having me and the boys and not being able to cope with us. But it could be . . .’ She swallowed. ‘It could be himself. For – for – messing everything up all the time. Can you take revenge on yourself?’ She didn’t look at me, so I didn’t answer. At last she shook her head impatiently. ‘He just likes other women. Nothing to do with revenge. Just that he’s a bloody, no-good, stupid—’ She broke off and laughed and looked at me. ‘This is all your fault, Rachel Throstle! You’ve ruined my Shirley Temple curls, and Mum is going to cry when she sees me!’

  I could have cried myself, thinking about Meriel and her dad. I had been with Meriel three years ago, when we were far more impressionable than we were now, and had seen her dad in the newly constructed air-raid shelters at school. He’d been with the landlady from the Huntsman then. I had not actually seen him since then, but of course everyone in the city knew about him. It was as if he didn’t mind people knowing, as if he was doing something clever. And at each new story, Meriel would try to work it all out. She always ended up calling him names.

  I said, as robustly as possible, ‘Actually, the curls are springing back now. I think you’re going to like it better as time goes on. And your mum . . . well, she won’t mind. You know that.’

  Meriel said nothing for ages, and neither did I. Her curls were springing back, it was true, but the close cut had made her look smaller than ever. She was older than me because she’d been kept back a class at school; it was a private school and they did things like that; not as a punishment, but to ensure we all got our matrics before we left. So Meriel was eighteen and still did not measure five feet tall. She took a size two in shoes and her enormous grey eyes took up most of her face; with her new haircut they looked bigger than ever. And you could see her ears. My dad had a saying when there was a secret to be shared – ‘a word in your shell-like’ – and I saw that Meriel’s ears were like two delicate translucent shells. The August sun shone through them.

  She said, ‘I really do want to do something splendid today. Something for the war effort. Let’s go and paint a sign!’

  It had been all the rage. Walls everywhere were still daubed with demands to ‘OPEN SECOND FRONT NOW’. Now it had happened and it seemed the end of the war was . . . well, in sight.

  I said doubtfully, ‘What would we say?’

  ‘I like Ike?�
� Meriel offered.

  Strangely enough, people didn’t seem to mind General Dwight Eisenhower. Privately I thought it was a bit of a cheek, taking over our war, but Dad said they’d put so much money in it, let them have it. And anyway, General Ike had such a nice face: rather like an amiable frog.

  ‘Well, it’s quite a nice thing to paint. But . . . we’d be arrested before we got the lid off the tin!’

  ‘That’s the whole point! The danger of it!’ She looked at me, all excitement, then added, ‘Anyway, they don’t do anything about it – you get a warning from a policeman and that’s that.’

  ‘You’d prefer to go to jail, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . D’you know, sometimes I wonder what on earth life will be like after the war. No one to hate . . .’

  ‘We’ll be out at work by then. Our own money. No clothing coupons.’ I crossed my fingers because there were rumours about a super-bomb that could still win the war for Hitler.

  Meriel said nothing, and I was grateful because I’d spoken out of turn. I had the promise of a job at our local newspaper office so long as I matriculated, and Dad was already calling me his special cub reporter. Meriel wanted to be a hairdresser and no way would her father allow that. He had inherited Nightingale’s from his father, and had watched it run downhill since the war started. It had been one of the best gents’ outfitters in the city but Dennis Nightingale had failed to get the coveted ‘Suppliers to His Majesty’s Armed Forces’ and clothes rationing had hit hard. He was no businessman and though Meriel could not spell she was excellent with numbers. He wanted her in the shop. She could think of nothing worse. If she matriculated her father had promised he would wait for another few years until she got ‘some sort of degree’. We both needed that precious piece of paper.

  It was then, sitting on our bikes, scuffing the grit on the rough road that led down to the fields and Twyver’s Brook, that the man appeared around the bend about a quarter of a mile behind us. Meriel, who was facing that way, began to report in a low, deliberately tense voice: ‘Chap in sight. On bike. Wearing civvies. Cap. Suit. Proper suit. Navy-blue. Could be a chalk stripe. Can’t see yet. Coming up fast.’

  I kept my eyes studiously front. I knew the drill. We’d done it before. Chosen someone – a victim, I suppose – and followed them. We’d cook up an exciting background for them en route; if they got off their bikes so did we, and we’d followed them around shops on foot. Eventually they’d arrive at their destination and we’d go home. We had always hoped for something more interesting, and this looked more like it.

  Meriel suddenly got off her bike, let it fall against the grass verge, and bent down to adjust the buckle on her sandal. I followed suit, said a couple of ‘rhubarbs’ at her, and we both laughed. This was, of course, intended to reassure the man on the bike that we hadn’t the least intention of following him.

  As he drew level I started to glance up – which we had previously decided was the natural thing to do – all prepared to return his ‘good afternoon’ with a nod. But he kept his eyes straight ahead; I don’t think he even saw us.

  I tried my photographic technique, which was much more effective when I could frame my subject with tunnelled hands and spend a bit of time. This quick upward flash gave me the cap, glasses beneath, no chalk stripes: in fact a shiny serge suit, a white shirt and . . . and . . . a school tie! Not even from the boys’ grammar, but from our school! The distinctive double arch of the Swallow School was unmissable.

  We waited until he was almost out of sight – the rough road went on for another mile before reaching the city boundary – during which time I had passed on this vital piece of information.

  ‘He must be one of the dads!’ I gasped as we righted our bicycles and mounted them. ‘How else would he get one of our ties?’

  ‘They get thrown out, eventually,’ Meriel panted. Her legs were shorter than mine by at least nine inches, and though her saddle was as low as it would go she had to stand on her pedals to get going. We concentrated on getting into a rhythm, and as we rounded the next bend there he was, still grinding along, completely oblivious to the state of the road, the heat and the two girls on bikes following him.

  ‘Definitely not a dad,’ Meriel said. ‘You saw the tie. I saw the shoes. Can you spot them from here? The soles are flapping.’

  He disappeared from view behind a thicket of alders, and something was hanging from his pedal. Definitely not a dad. Dads had to be earning salaries rather than wages to send their girls to Swallow. I was there on a scholarship.

  We had no difficulty for the next mile or so, which took us into the centre of the city. The prongs of the cathedral tower were on our right. He turned left and so did we. We started to close the gap between us, because he had two choices now: he could go straight on over the railway level crossing or he could turn sharp right towards the city’s park.

  The summer afternoon was well on its way; Eastgate Street was hot and rather smelly as we passed the fruit market. We came to the level crossing – the metal lines seemed to shimmer in the heat – and the gates were closed. We couldn’t see the man at first and both looked right towards the war memorial. The road was clear except for an open camouflaged truck full of chewing American GIs. No cyclists. We looked back. He was halfway across the double railway track using the pedestrian bit and wheeling his bike. He got to the other side, and as he went through there came that familiar click which meant the walk-way was also locked.

  ‘We’ve lost him!’ announced Meriel, looking absolutely tragic.

  The time between locking the gates and a train running through was indeed long enough for ‘our man’ to disappear in the maze of streets and alleys leading from Barton Street to what was known as the White City and the cemetery beyond. I felt frantic.

  ‘No, we haven’t! Follow me!’

  As I turned and pedalled furiously towards the park and the war memorial I felt terrific. We were both absolutely certain that we were on the trail of someone who was up to no good. We were part of the war effort. We were Doing Our Bit. This transcended painting ‘I LIKE IKE’ by a mile.

  Once past the park, almost next to the Empire cinema, I skidded sharp left and plunged down into the pedestrian tunnel that linked the right side with the wrong side of the tracks. Up and into the heat again, I veered another sharp left, and pedalled even more furiously back alongside the railway to the other side of the level crossing. There were three cars waiting to get into Eastgate Street, four cyclists and a gaggle of pedestrians, one with a pram full of coal. I came to a stop on the other side of the street, slewed my poor old Raleigh round by the kerb, and stared along the shabby length of Barton Street. The man was just passing Silverman’s Bespoke Tailoring – doing so much better than Nightingale’s since specializing in alterations to officers’ uniforms right back in 1939. Our man was hesitating there, his bike wobbling a bit as he glanced at the window. But then he pushed hard on the pedals of his bike and was off again. Meriel skidded to a halt alongside me, and I jabbed a finger, and we were again in hot pursuit.

  I glanced at her as she did her usual thing of standing on her pedals. She was gleaming with sweat but grinning like a lunatic. And her curls were definitely coming back. I laughed, and she looked round at me and grinned, and it was like telepathy. I knew we were both thinking we were old enough to join up or make munitions or even to get married – well, she was – and here we were, acting like kids, making up games as we went along, like we always had, pretending we were rescuing the nation from a devilish German spy . . . and enjoying every minute of it.

  There were more people about now, all moving towards the centre, talking to their kids in a series of hoarse commands: ‘Mind that bike!’ ‘Get on the pavement!’ ‘Don’t drink that pop before we damn well get there!’

  Meriel looked at me and shouted, ‘Holidays at Home. In the park.’

  Of course. Mum, Dad, Mr and Mrs Nightingale, Meriel and the boys, Hermione Smith without her mum . . . we were all
going together on Saturday evening. But it had started last weekend. I felt an extra jab of excitement: the big wheel was really big and there was something called the whip that guaranteed an upset stomach for two days after trying it. The families from the south of the town probably went most days armed with a picnic; there were plenty of free activities, the model boating pool being especially popular in this weather. No boats but plenty of muddy children.

  We passed Silverman’s, and I saw the notice ‘closed’ in the window, and wondered fleetingly whether our man had considered going in there.

  ‘Turning right!’ Meriel added and stuck out her arm in good time. Children scattered. ‘Where the hell is he going?’

  ‘It’s St James Street,’ I said back. ‘My gran used to live there.’

  We whizzed down past Gran’s old cottage with its big garden, over the ford and into Brook Street. Our man was there, wobbling again, uncertain whether to turn left or right. Right would take him back into Barton Street and would probably mean he did not know where he was going. He turned left.

  He knew where he was going all right, and suddenly it was as if he knew we were behind him, too. We were in territory we did not know: the White City had been built just before the war, and was meant to house people from the city’s slum area, which was due for clearance. Then the war came and the slum area was still there, and so was the White City. The new estate was like a maze, parallel roads criss-crossed by others; nobody had got around to planting trees but the names spoke of future plans for the parks and gardens department: Elm Avenue, Oak Tree Close, Poplar Road, Aspen Way. Our man knew them all and he put on speed and wove around them, doubling back so that we had to throw ourselves into gateways or behind grimy syringa bushes. We loved it, but we were apprehensive too. What if he confronted us and asked us what we thought we were playing at? What if he shouted? Or yelled for a policeman? I confided my fears to Meriel when he went into a telephone kiosk. ‘He could be ringing the police right now,’ I whispered. We were miles away but I dared not raise my voice.