I'll Be Home for Christmas, page 1
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for M. W. Arnold
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Copyright
Acknowledgements
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
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press
From being on their own, on a quiet and uneventful stooge back to base, they found themselves flying too sedately and at right angles between a Nazi He111 bomber and—too late for any evasive action—the incoming fire from an attacking British Spitfire. The control yoke in Jane’s hands jerked and twitched at the same moment they both felt cannon shells striking the tail of the Anson.
“Bloody hell!” they both cried at the same time, with Penny making a wild grab at the yoke in an attempt to help Jane control the damaged plane.
“Look out!” Jane cried, jerking the column to the right, having spotted the bomber’s upper gunner firing back.
Whether he was aiming at the Spitfire or deliberately at them didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were hit, this time by enemy fire. Some of the gunner’s fire went through the side of the cockpit, and other bullets smashed into the instrument panel. At first, it didn’t appear to be as serious as what they’d already suffered, but then Jane’s attention was drawn to the smoke beginning to pour from the left engine, and the control yoke gave another, deeper, longer shudder.
“Buggeration! Penny!” Jane yelled. “Give me a hand.” When she got no immediate response, she looked to her right, and her heart nearly stopped.
Penny was slumped over the control yoke, and Jane was shocked to the core to see blood pouring from a wound in her friend’s upper arm.
Praise for M. W. Arnold
and the books of the Broken Wings series
“WILD BLUE YONDER is a delightful World War II story…a lovely cast of characters…importance of true friendship…very knowledgeable about the ATA, RAF, airplanes and women pilots, and I very much enjoyed finding out more about these special ladies.”
~Christina Courtenay, Best Selling Author
~*~
“[A WING AND A PRAYER] reminded me of the work of prolific and successful author Elaine Everest. A flowing WWII mystery, filled with authentic detail.”
~Sue Moorcroft, #1 Amazon Best Selling Author
~*~
“You…feel like you’re there. I…loved the friendship of the women…it has a mystery… a bit everything!”
~Miranda Dickinson, Sunday Times Best Selling Author
~*~
“Clearly…a lot of research into The Air Transport Auxiliary and this shines through in his writing and helps to make the story that bit more authentic.”
~Ginger Book Geek blog
~*~
“This story has everything. There’s friendship, history, intrigue and romance in an entertaining blend that I thoroughly enjoyed.”
~Linda’s Book Bag
~*~
“I’m delighted to see that this is the first in a series—I’m hooked and already looking forward to my return to …more time with the ladies of the ATA.”
~Being Anne book blog
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
by
M. W. Arnold
Broken Wings, Book 3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
COPYRIGHT © 2021 by M. W. Arnold
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2021
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3878-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3879-8
Broken Wings, Book 3
Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
Here we are with the third book in my Broken Wings series, and I can’t believe the time has gone by so quickly since the first. A Wing and a Prayer came out in November of 2020!
Christmas in World War Two was a strange affair, somehow more so if you were a stranger to the shores of the United Kingdom. The byword was “austerity”—re-use, don’t go overboard, et cetera, not that this was possible, for the most part. I’ve learned so much about that time of the war during my research for this book, though I don’t think my suggestion we have a chicken-wire Christmas tree put up whilst I wrote this book, to create the correct atmosphere, went down too well.
As she did for books one and two, there’s my wonderful editor, Nan, to thank. She puts me right when I get things wrong and is always there with words of encouragement. My wonderful covers are designed and brought to life by Wild Rose Press co-founder, vice president, and all around good egg, RJ. Thanks for finding ways to create such memorable covers, boss!
For answering and checking and double-checking everything police procedure wise, a big thank you to Kelvin of Hampshire Police. Keep safe, mate!
As always, the Maidenhead Heritage Center—https://maidenheadheritage.org.uk/—was a tremendous source of both inspiration and information. Take time, if you can, to learn there about some real heroes of the Air Transport Auxiliary. You won’t believe some of the stories.
For everyone in the Romantic Novelists Association, you’re the best bunch of friends and authors out there, bar none! I can’t wait to see you all and say this to your faces.
Finally, to my Lady Wife, who’s put up with my absently waving my hands about as I’ve tried to work out a plot point or the maneuvers of an imaginary plane. You’re a constant source of strength to me, and I couldn’t do this without you. Love you, Thumper!
Chapter One
November 24, 1943
Betty Palmer stared into the saucepan and frowned. She glanced over at the kitchen table and let out an exaggerated sigh. Doris sat there, leaning forward expectantly, her head propped upon her hands.
“Is it ready for a taste?” she asked, eyes widening in—not anticipation but something more akin to resignation.
Turning back to the stove, Betty leaned over the steaming mess—“mess” would be the word she’d choose to describe the concoction if she had to. Laying the wooden spoon against the rim, she wafted the steam upward and with hesitancy brought on by experience, breathed in. When she didn’t immediately want to cough her lungs out, Betty took hold of all her courage and brought the spoon to her lips. Tentatively, she stuck her tongue out and dipped it quickly into the postbox-red mixture. Widening her eyes, she swirled her taster around her mouth and—winced! Her left eye snapped shut and her head tilted to the left, before she spun around, took up a glass of water she had ready on the table, and drank the whole lot down in one go.
Getting up from her seat, Doris Winter patted her friend and landlady upon the back until she managed to catch her breath. “No good, huh?”
Turning off the burner’s flame, Betty picked up the saucepan and put it before Doris on the table. “If you feel brave enough, please, go ahead.” She offered her the spoon.
“Third time bitten,” Doris muttered. Without the same hesitation as her friend, the American dipped the spoon into the pan and, in one smooth movement, brought a large mass of the sauce to her lips. Briefly sniffing the aroma, she nodded to herself and tipped it into her mouth.
Somewhat to Betty’s surprise, Doris didn’t immediately collapse and demand a glass of water and a doctor, as she had done for her previous attempts. Despite matching Betty’s own facial expressions, Doris seemed to be relaxing back into her seat, and her face was gradually returning to normal. Betty reached a hand across the table
Doris was rich, having been paid off by her New York family who wanted nothing to do with her after she’d made what they considered an inappropriate marriage. Unfortunately, the union had been short-lived—he’d been killed whilst flying for the Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War. Since coming to the United Kingdom in 1942 and joining the Air Transport Auxiliary, Doris had become fast friends with her housemates and their landlady, Betty. Unexpectedly, the outgoing pilot had become close friends with a local newspaper reporter, and after a few months, they’d surprised everyone by getting engaged. The ring wasn’t flashy—Doris even admitted it wasn’t gold—but it served its purpose, and she was extremely proud of it, refusing to take it off even when flying.
“Doris,” Betty ventured gently, “are you okay? I haven’t finally killed you off, have I?”
As if hearing her friend through a haze, Doris slowly opened her eyes and allowed a smile to grace her lips. She gripped the hand laid over hers. “Far from it, Betty. You’ve nailed it!”
The look upon Betty’s face said you could have knocked her over with a feather. Without thinking, she took the spoon from Doris, dipped it into the pan, and took as big a taste as the American had. Immediately, she had to stumble to her feet, fill her glass at the sink, and knock it back as quickly as ever. Gasping, she leant back against the table. “Seriously? You’re telling me it’s supposed to taste like that?”
Now it had cooled, Doris had begun to dip her finger into the pan. “Perfect cranberry sauce.”
“Is it always so…sour?”
Surprisingly, Doris shook her head, then appeared to think about it, and nodded.
“You’re not helping.”
“Sorry,” Doris told her. “Let’s put it this way. Traditionally, over the other side of the Pond, we tend to like it much sweeter. Yours, however? I’ve never tasted the like.”
“So why did you ask me to make it?” Betty demanded.
“Well, for a start, I can’t cook.”
“A fact we’re well aware of,” said a new voice.
Both their heads turned as the voice’s owner, Penny Blake—everyone was still having a hard time thinking of her by her married name of Alsop—strolled in to join them.
“Anyone can burn toast!” Doris protested.
“True,” Penny agreed. “Though not everyone can boil an egg until it’s so hard we’re still able to use it to play fetch with Bobby two weeks later!”
“Bobby’s not complaining,” Doris pointed out.
“I think Ruth’s worried he may try and eat it and break a few teeth,” Penny informed her, though her lips twitched as she struggled to keep a straight face.
Doris looked around for something she could throw at her friends without causing any real harm. Foiled, she fixed them both with a stare.
“Seriously,” Betty asked again, “why did you want some?”
Unable to find the energy to keep up her stare attack, Doris flopped back into her seat and glanced around at her family. “I love you all, but there are some things I really miss about the US. Thanksgiving dinner is one of them.”
Betty and Penny both nodded their understanding. Then, seeing Doris was still dipping her finger into the pot, Betty snatched it back. “If you keep eating it,” she admonished, “there’ll be none left for Thursday! And there’s no sugar left to make any more, let alone cranberries.”
“Just as well you got it exactly as I like it on the last attempt then, Betty,” Doris declared, licking the vestiges of the sauce off her fingertip.
“Somebody had better get me a jar, then,” Betty said, lightly smacking Doris’s hand as it snaked toward the pan once more.
****
Mary Whitworth-Baines hopped from one foot to the other, unable to keep still. Waiting on a freezing cold train platform had never been something she was fond of. She imagined it could be considered, at a push, romantic, though only if it was at either a big city station or one which had one of those charming cottage-style canteens. Perhaps there was a good movie to be had there, but an open platform, on a dank and dark Tuesday night, wasn’t even close. Pulling her woolen coat closer, she wrapped her arms around herself and stamped her feet hard on the cold concrete platform, trying to keep warm. She held up her wrist in an effort to use the moonlight to see the time and was in the process of squinting at her watch when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“What the hell!” she shouted, nearly jumping out of her skin and turning to find standing behind her the owner of the local newspaper, the Hamble Gazette, Ruth Stone. It appeared Mary’s reaction to her innocent greeting was enough to freeze Ruth’s entire body in place, as her mouth was hanging open and she hadn’t lowered her arm. “Um, Ruth?”
The blast of a train whistle startled them both. “Oh, Christ,” Ruth began. “I’m so sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Mary linked her arm through one of Ruth’s. “Apart from losing a life or two if I were a cat,” she told the older woman, “I think I’ll forgive you.”
Ruth stood on tiptoes as a burst of steam could be seen from just beyond where the rail curved before straightening to come in to the platform. “Is that his train?”
A gust of cold air off the Solent blew in and tried its best to blow them both off their feet. Digging her free hand deeper into her pocket, Mary decided against trying to check the time again. “I really hope so,” she said, for the umpteenth time cursing her bad judgment at not wearing her gloves. “Otherwise, I’ll let him walk home on his own.”
Ruth took Mary’s freezing hands between her own two woolen-gloved ones and endeavored to rub some warmth into them. “You and me both, and I’ve only just got here.”
Fortunately, the train that approached the station with its sole two passengers did turn out to be the one they were waiting for. Only one door opened, and through the opening, a single large duffel bag came flying, closely followed by a tall, sandy-haired man clutching a small brown suitcase, a hat in his other hand.
“Lawrence!” shouted Mary, waving a hand.
“Herbert!” Ruth yelled at the same time.
The women looked at each other and burst out laughing. The expression of confusion on the man’s face was priceless. Still with their arms linked, they trotted down the platform to meet him.
“You’re nothing if not persistent,” he informed Ruth.
“Guilty as charged, Detective Inspector,” she declared, holding out her arms as if they should be handcuffed, a huge grin upon her face.
“Aunties first,” Mary told him, shooing Ruth forward into the man’s waiting arms.
“How are you doing, Aunty?” Lawrence asked Ruth, as they wrapped their arms around each other.
“All the better for seeing you,” she told him, before kissing her nephew on the cheek and letting him go. “Now, go and say hello to your girlfriend.”
“I should say so too,” Mary informed him before rushing into his arms. “Oh, so good,” she murmured into his chest, crushing her cold face into his warm body.
Placing a hand each side of her face, Lawrence lifted her face toward his and lowered his lips to hers. Surrendering to the tingles she was feeling from the tips of her toes to the tops of her ears, Mary decided the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” was quite true.
When Ruth cleared her throat, she had to cough three times before the pair finally came up for air and parted. “As romantic as this is,” she announced, “I suggest we get off home before we all freeze solid to this godforsaken platform. Agreed?”
By way of an answer, Lawrence, albeit reluctantly, let go his hold of his girlfriend and bent to pick up his duffel bag. Slinging it across his back and placing his hat on his head, he picked up his suitcase and held out a hand toward Mary. “Shall we?”
“Don’t worry about your poor aunty. I’ll trail behind the pair of you, all on my own.”
Both turned to face her, mouths open to make their excuses, only to be met by the sight of her holding her sides in silent laughter.
“You should see your faces! They’re a picture!”
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Lawrence stated with an expression of confusion upon his face.
“Ignore her,” Mary urged, pulling him back toward the exit to the station. “She’s been like this for a while.”
