The Girl in the Pink Raincoat Read online

  THE GIRL IN THE PINK RAINCOAT

  Alrene Hughes

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About The Girl in the Pink Raincoat

  When a factory girl and a Jewish businessman fall in love it seems that the whole world is against them.

  Manchester, 1939. On the eve of war Gracie Earnshaw is working in Rosenberg Raincoat factory – a job she hates – but her life is about to be turned upside down when she falls in love with Jacob, the boss’s charismatic nephew.

  Through Jacob, with his ambitions to be a writer, Gracie glimpses another world: theatre, music and prejudice. But their forbidden romance is cut short when Jacob is arrested and tragedy unfolds.

  Gracie struggles with heartbreak, danger and old family secrets, but the love of her first sweetheart comes back to her in an unexpected way giving her the chance of a new life and happiness.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Girl in the Pink Raincoat

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About Alrene Hughes

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  For Jeff

  Chapter 1

  Everyone hated the heat and the deafening noise, but for Gracie the worst thing was the smell of chemicals that turned her stomach every morning when she arrived at the Rosenberg Raincoats factory. She put on her green wrap-round overall and covered her dark hair with a headscarf tied in a turban and stood looking out at the blackened perimeter wall and high tower of Strangeways prison not a hundred yards away.

  ‘Late again, Miss Earnshaw, and in no hurry to get to your workbench, I see. I’ll dock you half an hour for that.’

  ‘But, Mr Rosenberg, it wasn’t my fault, honestly. There was this woman – very well dressed, lovely hat with a peacock feather – stepped off a bus, missed her footing, practically fell at my feet—’

  ‘I’m in no mood for your stories this morning.’ He put his thumbs under his braces and stretched them. ‘Now, get to work. We’ve had a big order from Kendal Milne for the new-season raincoats and it’s all hands to the pump to deliver them before the Manchester rain beats us to it.’

  Gracie went straight to her sewing machine, and Maria at the bench next to hers shouted over the noise, ‘Did he catch you?’

  Gracie rolled her eyes and snapped her imaginary braces, making Maria laugh. Then she started on her first raincoat of the day and was soon singing along with all the other girls. At mid-morning, when the blazing sun was streaming through the skylights, Jacob Rosenberg, the boss’s nephew, arrived in the machine room to check production. He was always immaculately dressed in a hand-tailored suit, but this morning he had removed the jacket, and in his pristine white shirt, open at the neck, he drew admiring glances, causing a sudden drop in the work rate.

  Every now and again Gracie, towards the back of the room, slowed her machine so she could watch him. He had a ready smile, knew everyone by name and had a quick chat with them as he recorded the number of garments completed. By the time he reached her row she had her head down, stitching at a furious pace.

  ‘Ah, Gracie, making up for lost time, I see.’ There was always a smile in his voice, and the hint of a foreign accent set him apart.

  She stopped sewing and gave him her innocent look. ‘Wouldn’t want to let Rosenberg Raincoats down, would I, Mr Jacob?’

  He checked her total and winked. ‘Knew I could rely on you,’ he said.

  At midday the workers sat out in the yard, eating: the men who welded the waterproof seams sat in the shade, while the women enjoyed the warmth of the late-August sun. Gracie unwrapped the newspaper from her dinner and passed a bloater-paste butty to Maria who, in return, gave her a roll filled with Italian sausage.

  ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ asked Gracie.

  ‘Same as I do every weekend – selling ice cream and sarsaparilla.’

  ‘I thought I might go up to Heaton Park. There’s a brass-band concert. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I don’t think I can. If this good weather holds, we’ll be really busy in the shop.’

  ‘I were up at park last week,’ Charlie Nuttall shouted across to them. ‘There’s a bloody big anti-aircraft-gun placement and a searchlight right in the middle of it. Talk about wasting brass. And have you seen all them shelters they’ve built round the town? Don’t they read the papers at the council?’

  ‘Happen they know summat we don’t,’ said his mate Ernie.

  ‘Nah, peace in our time, Mr Chamberlain said, and that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Charlie, give over with all the war talk,’ said Hilda, who folded and packed the raincoats. ‘Hey, Gracie, you haven’t told us about the book you’re reading this week. Is it love story?’

  ‘I’ve only just started it, but I don’t think it is. It’s about a lad called Pip and so far he’s met a prisoner on the run—’

  ‘What, out a Strangeways?’ asked Hilda.

  ‘No, this prison’s not round here, it’s near the sea. Any road, after he meets the prisoner the lad gets taken to a big house and he’s there in a strange room…’ Gracie paused, all eyes on her. ‘It’s lit by candles and his eyes pick out a lady at a dressing table in front of a mirror. The strangest woman he’d ever seen. She was dressed all in white, like a bride – satins and silks and a long veil – jewels too.’ Gracie mimed the necklace and earrings. ‘But Pip looked closer, something wasn’t right. The clothes might have been white once, but now they were yellow as parchment. The bride was a withered old woman, just skin and bone.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what’s gone on there?’ said Hilda.

  ‘I could guess.’ said Maria. ‘It reminds me of one of my aunts. She were jilted at the altar, but she kept the wedding dress for her shroud.’

  Gracie looked up and caught sight of Mr Jacob standing just inside the door watching her and she turned to the workers.

  ‘Anyway, that’s as far as I’ve got. I’ll have to tell you the rest next week.

  On cue, Jacob Rosenberg stepped into the yard. ‘She’s right, time to get back to work.’

  Charlie fell into step beside her as they went inside. She could guess why – he was always asking her to go out with him. ‘I could meet you at the park on Sunday if you want some company,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, you’re all right, Charlie.’ She laughed. ‘I’d sooner spend day at council tip.’

  *

  Of all the bedrooms in the Midland Hotel, this one was Sarah’s favourite. She went straight to the windows and ope
ned them wide to gaze down at the vast, circular Central Library and across to the buses and cars in St Peter’s Square. Then she got to work stripping the bed, leaving the eiderdown, bedspread and blankets to one side and putting the used sheets and pillowcases in the cart. Fresh white sheets, lightly starched, were definitely one of her favourite things. She stood at the end of the bed, tossed the sheet into the air and inhaled the smell of clean linen as it billowed and descended.

  Bed made, she moved on to the bathroom. She had never seen one before she came to work at the Midland. In Belfast, where she had grown up, they had had a privy in the yard and a tin bath hanging on the wall, which they brought inside on a Saturday night and filled with hot water. When she’d come to Manchester, it was no different.

  The bathroom gleaming, she set out the fluffy towels – so soft, she held them to her face – then placed a tiny Yardley soap in each dish. She ran the Ewbank over the carpet and polished the furniture, checking the writing desk had a good supply of Midland Hotel-headed notepaper and wondering what the guests might write about. Finally, she looked in every drawer and wardrobe and under the bed. The guests left things behind sometimes: a button, a handkerchief, a business card, the faint scent of French perfume… Once, she had found a beautiful silk scarf behind a dressing-table.

  At the door she paused. She would never sleep in a room like this, but she made it new again every morning and allowed herself to think that one day her Gracie might rise in the world and enjoy such luxury.

  When Sarah had finished her shift, she hurried home. She had left some sheets steeping in bleach that morning and she hoped that the few hours of sunshine left in the day would be enough to dry them. She turned into Pearson Street and the little girls gathered round the rope swing hanging from the lamppost called, ‘Mrs Earnshaw, do you want a go?’

  She waved at them, ‘Not today, girls,’ and hurried on.

  As usual, the boys were playing football on the croft at the far end of the street, but she was surprised to see a group of women standing close to her house, having a serious chinwag.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said, then noticed that Doris, her next-door neighbour, was sniffing and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. A few of the others looked close to tears.

  ‘The kids are being evacuated.’ Doris waved a letter in her hand. ‘They came home today with this and they’re going in a week’s time. They’re taking our kids.’

  Another mother shouted, ‘We’re not even at war!’

  ‘Now, hold on a wee minute.’ Sarah’s voice was calm. ‘Nobody will take your children if you don’t want them to go. But just think about it. The people who know what’s really going on are making plans to keep them safe. Did you read the article in the Evening News last week?’ It was clear from their faces that they hadn’t. Sarah went on, ‘It’s very well organised. They’ll be evacuated out in the country with decent people who’ll look after them. Even their teachers are going. Think of it as a holiday for them. They’ll have a great time and if there’s no war, well, there’ll be no harm done and they’ll be back home before you know it.’

  Sarah could see them weighing up her words. ‘Did they tell you where they’re being sent?’

  ‘Ramsbottom – wherever that is,’ said Lily, who had four children under ten.

  ‘Well, there you are – there’s a train from Manchester to Bury and I think Ramsbottom is near there. You could go and see them easy enough. You know, some children are being sent to Wales – a different country. At least yours’ll be in the same county.’

  The women looked thoughtful and she hoped they would mull it over and, while they were all together, she decided it would be a good time to mention something else. ‘I’ve been thinking about shelters,’ she said. ‘Not many of us have the room for an Anderson in the yard and the nearest public shelter’s on Oldham Road. I thought I’d ask the landlord at the Foresters Arms if we could use his cellar. It’ll need a good clean, of course. What do you think?’

  There were nods of approval, and Lily joked, ‘That’ll suit my Wilf down to the ground. He spends his days down the pub, might as well sleep there too!’

  But Doris was crying again. ‘It’s really going to happen, in’t it? We’ll get bombed.’

  Sarah put her arm round Doris’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, sure it’ll be fine. Look on the bright side ‒ without the kids you’ll have half the washing, cooking and cleaning to do and a nice cosy cellar to shelter in if the bombs start falling.’

  Chapter 2

  Sunday afternoon was warm and sunny, and after dinner Sarah announced that she was going to whitewash the outside privy. ‘If there’s going to be a war, I want to make sure all my affairs are in order.’

  Gracie looked at her mother, shook her head in disbelief and convulsed with laughter. ‘What? What?’ was all she could say.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Sarah. ‘I wouldn’t want anybody to talk about me if we’re bombed.’ By now Sarah knew how ridiculous she sounded and started laughing as well. ‘Anyway, do you want to help me?’

  ‘No, Mam. The last thing I want is to spend a lovely day in a lavatory. I think I’ll change my clothes and go out for a bit. I’ll be back for my tea.’

  It was a fair walk from Oldham Road to Heaton Park, but Gracie didn’t mind. It was good to be out in the fresh air, to leave behind the streets of two-up-two-down terraces and find herself in the leafy suburbs. She wore her Sunday best – blue floral cotton frock and cardigan with a matching ribbon in her dark hair. She strolled under the colonnade that marked the entrance to the park and joined the crowds of people enjoying the warm sun and a holiday atmosphere. If anyone was concerned about the threat of war they certainly didn’t show it.

  The lake was crowded with rowing boats and she stopped to watch the antics of four lads who couldn’t work out how to stop the boat going round in circles. Then she set off up the long drive towards Heaton Hall, a large and impressive Georgian house. To the right of it was a high vantage point topped by a little temple. She climbed the hill and looked out over the park from where she could see the anti-aircraft gun and searchlight that Charlie had described. The encampment was well dug in and surrounded by a wooden fence. Two soldiers stood on guard. The gun was much bigger than she had imagined and the thought of it in action made her shudder.

  In the distance to the north and east were the mills of Bury, Rochdale and Oldham. To the south, as far as the eye could see, were the factories and canals of Manchester and Salford, and to the west, on this clearest of days, Gracie fancied she could see the port of Liverpool. Above her the sky seemed huge and for a moment she imagined it full of enemy planes.

  ‘It’s an impressive weapon, isn’t it?’

  She turned. Jacob Rosenberg was at her side. ‘I suppose so, but I hope to God they never have to fire it.’

  ‘I’m afraid they probably will, Gracie, and sooner than we think.’ He went on, ‘The news is bad today. The papers are saying we’ll be at war this time next week. Just think, we could be enjoying the last Sunday of peace for a long time.’

  ‘Well, that’s put a dampener on the day, hasn’t it?’ said Gracie.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, forgive me.’ There was the lovely smile that brightened her working days. ‘Let me make it up to you,’ he said. ‘How about an ice cream?’

  They walked down the hill together, and Gracie couldn’t help wondering why he was in the park and, of all the people there, he had ended up standing next to her. ‘It seems a bit of a coincidence that you’re here today,’ she said.

  ‘Not really. I often have a walk here on Sunday afternoon. I only live up the road.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear me say I was coming here?’

  He pretended to be surprised. ‘Why would you think that?’

  She had the feeling he was teasing her, but she wouldn’t let him get away with it. ‘I know you watch me at work when you think I’m not looking,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, but that’s because you watch me when y
ou’re supposed to be stitching raincoats.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already laughing. ‘Let’s just say we keep an eye on each other. But today’s different, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ she said.

  ‘Of course it is. We’re not in the factory. It’s just you and me out for a walk in the sunshine. So, how do you want to spend our time together on the last Sunday of peace?’

  They went to look at the Hall, walking around the outside and peering through the tall windows at grand fireplaces, huge dark paintings of people long dead, an elegant table that would seat half of Gracie’s street. ‘It would have been such a bustling place at one time,’ said Jacob, ‘with carriages sweeping up the drive bringing the cotton barons to dine.’

  Gracie’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, and the lady of the house, in an Empire-line gown, embroidered with pearls, and long white evening gloves, would have stood at the foot of the sweeping staircase waiting to greet them.’ She ran up the steps outside a French window and struck a pose. Jacob followed her, playing along, bowing low.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Rosenberg,’ she said, in her poshest voice, ‘and how is the raincoat business?’

  ‘Thriving, ma’am, thriving.’

  ‘And, tell me, do you treat your workers kindly?’

  ‘Indeed I do, ma’am, especially the pretty ones.’

  She frowned. ‘So, you have an eye for the ladies, have you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  Gracie pretended to be shocked and looked up at him under her eyelashes.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that, should I?’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, Mr Jacob, I’m just play-acting.’ But she was surprised to feel her heart racing.

  ‘Oh, you can’t call me Mr Jacob when we’re not in the factory.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m just Jacob.’

  She put her head to one side, pretending to study him. ‘Just Jacob, I like that.’