Kitty Neale - Lost Angel

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback by HarperCollins Publishers , 2009

Copyright © Kitty Neale 2009

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Cover photographs: Alamy/Getty

Kitty Neale 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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: 9781847563538

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780007346332

Version: 2016-04-14

For Shelley Blofeld.

Thank you, darling, for giving me two beautiful great-grandchildren and for making my grandson so happy. I hope your marriage will go from strength to strength, and though distant, you will always be able to see us as a part of your family.

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

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Battersea, South London, September 1940

Nine-year-old Ellen Stone woke to the incessant wail of the air raid siren. Neighbourhood dogs were already howling and Ellen’s stomach churned with fear as she flung back the blankets.

‘Come on, get a move on,’ her mother, Hilda, shouted, ‘and don’t forget your gas mask.’

Ellen’s thin legs wobbled as she reached out in total darkness to fumble for the light switch. With the blackout in force, and the windows covered to prevent even a chink of light escaping, her bedroom looked gloomy in the dim glow of a bare lightbulb. Ellen pushed her shoulder-length dark hair aside as she thrust bare feet into her shoes, and then, grabbing the hated gas mask, she ran downstairs.

‘Hurry up,’ her mum urged.

They stumbled down the garden to the Anderson shelter, but could already hear the heavy, uneven throb of bombers flying across London.

‘Oh, Mum,’ cried Ellen.

‘I know, love, I know,’ she consoled, closing the shelter door behind them. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably going for the Surrey Docks again. Now hold the torch so I can light the oil lamp.’

With hands shaking, Ellen did as she was told, and though her mum was a tiny woman, less than five foot tall, she leaned on her strength. With light brown hair, small dark eyes and a thin face that ended in a pointed chin, her mother was like a pretty mouse in appearance, yet there was nothing meek in her demeanour. She could be soft and kind, but woe betide anyone who crossed her.

‘There, that’s better,’ Hilda said in the glow from the oil lamp.

They sat on the camp bed, but Ellen jumped as a loud barrage of gunfire sounded, relieved when her mum put an arm around her shoulder, saying, ‘They’re ours, love. It’s those huge banks of anti-aircraft guns they’ve set up in Battersea Park.’

‘I … I’m still scared, Mum.’

‘I know, and this can’t go on. We need to get you out of London, but I don’t fancy this evacuation lark where you’d be sent off to strangers. I’ve sent a letter to my old friend Gertie, asking if you can stay with her for a while.’

‘But … but what about you? I don’t want to go without you.’

‘Your gran and granddad won’t shift and I can’t leave them. You’ll be fine with Gertie and you’ll love it on her smallholding. She’s even got chickens.’

There was the sudden shriek of stick bombs falling, along with the clatter of incendiaries as they landed on roofs and pavements. This was followed almost immediately by a loud boom, and another, so many that Ellen lost count as the ground shook beneath them. She was deafened by the noise, terrified, her mum now hunched over her like a shield.

All sense of time was lost, but then came a strange stillness, a hush before more noise – this time the dull thud of walls collapsing. ‘Mum, I can smell burning.’

They sat up to hear the crackle of flames and swiftly her mum moved to douse the oil lamp, a tremor in her voice. ‘The … the gas mains may have been hit, but it’s all right, we’re safe here. I think it’s over now, but we’ll have to wait for the all-clear. I can’t light the Primus so we’ll just have a drop of water.’

Fumbling in the dim light, her mum poured water from a bottle into tin mugs and, throat parched, Ellen drank it greedily. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

They sat, ears alert, dreading another wave of bombers until at last, after what felt like another hour, the all-clear tone from the siren sounded.

Tentatively they left the shelter, only to stand almost paralysed with shock at the sight that greeted them. Their house, along with every other in the street, had been destroyed, crushed, and all that remained were piles of rubble.

‘Oh, no, no,’ Hilda gasped.

The landscape appeared vast, alien, and at first beyond Ellen’s comprehension, but then she realised why. It wasn’t just their street that had been hit; it was the next one and the one beyond that, the area now a huge open mass of destruction. Dust was thick in the air, along with the smell of gas and smoke. Fires burned and Ellen was dimly aware of the distant sound of bells clanging as fire engines rushed to the scene. Yet still she and her mother stood, dazed and unmoving.