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CHAPTER 1

London, March 1951: Patricia, aged 7

The clock on the mantelpiece above the cast-iron fireplace ticked loudly in the silence that filled the back room of the small brick house in Belsize Park Gardens. The fire had been set, but the paper and coal were unlit.

Patricia sat very still on the wooden chair that had been placed in the centre of the room, her knees together, her fingers intertwined in her lap. His lips pursed in a line of displeasure, Major George Carstairs paced from one side of the sparsely furnished room to the other. Finally stopping squarely in front of his daughter, he stared down at her, his eyes cold.

'And how, exactly, do you account for your failure to prevent your brother from hurting himself?'

Patricia glanced up at the tall figure in front of her. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she looked back down at the floor.

'Well?'

'I did my best, Daddy,' she said in a whisper. 'I was reading my new book to James and he just fell over. He was sitting at the table, playing with his soldiers while I was reading to him, and then he fell on the floor and hit his head. I didn't know he was going to fall over. I'm sorry ...'

'Being sorry isn't good enough, Patricia.' Her father's chill tones cut across her words. 'It's nowhere near good enough. Your duty is to watch your brother's every movement, to see that he doesn't put himself in danger. Yet reading was more important than looking after your brother. Your instructions were quite clear. Was it asking too much to expect you to obey them?'

Patricia's eyes travelled over the patterned rug that covered the dark-stained boards on the floor of the front room and came to rest on her father's black shoes. They were polished to an ebony sheen. The last thing he did every night before he climbed the staircase to the bedroom that he shared with her mother was to polish his shoes.

'Look at me! Well, was it?'

'No, Daddy.' Her voice shook as she met her father's eyes. 'But I did do what you said I had to do if James fell over, like I always do. I wasn't afraid when he made that noise. I undid his shirt collar and looked for his tongue. And I put a penny in both of his hands. It's not my fault that his head hit the table. I didn't know he was going to fall down.'

'Not your fault, girl?' her father spat. 'You were alone with him! If you'd watched him more carefully, you'd have known what he was going to do. I cannot be here every minute of the day — I have to bring money into this house — and your mother has work to do in the kitchen. It's your job to watch your brother when you're not at school, but you didn't do that. You chose to read.'

'I promise I'll watch him much better in future.'

'I intend to make sure that you do just that. I'm going to teach you a lesson that will make you take your duty to your brother more seriously.' He took a step closer and leaned down towards her. 'I will not tolerate such laxity. Do I make myself quite clear?'

She nodded, staring up at him, her eyes wide open in anxiety. A movement of air brushed against her cheek and she sensed someone come and stand behind her. A hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

'I'm sure that Patricia did her best, George,' Enid Carstairs said, her voice shaking. 'It was obviously an accident, dear. You know how James often falls without any warning. You can see how upset Patricia is about the whole thing. She would never let James hurt himself if she could help it. She's a good girl, and she does her best to look after him.'

'Her best has been found wanting. Wars are not won where soldiers are found wanting. Patricia must learn that.'

He ran a slender finger slowly down the thin black line of his moustache.

Her mother's hand pressed more heavily on her shoulder.

'She's only seven, George. I've put a small dressing on James's head. It's only a little cut — nothing to cause alarm. He's vomited and he's now sleeping peacefully.'

'Every hurt that he suffers is a cause for alarm, Enid.' The Major's pale grey eyes didn't leave Patricia's face. 'Our focus at all times must be on helping him to get better. Patricia is old enough to understand that.'

He turned abruptly and walked towards the door. 'Follow me, Patricia,' he ordered without looking back. His footsteps echoed on the hard lino as he made his way along the corridor to the front room.

She burst into tears.

Her mother bent over and hugged her. 'Don't cry, darling. You know it only makes him worse. Just do as he says and go after him.' 'But it wasn't my fault, Mummy.' She clung tightly to her mother.

'I know that, sweetheart, and deep down so does Daddy. But you'd better go to him now, there's a good girl.'

'You go to him.' She clawed at her mother's arm, her face wet with tears. 'Tell him I'll be very good in future. I'll watch James all the time, I really will. I'll never read my books when I'm with him. Tell him, Mummy. Please.'

Enid pulled Patricia's hands away from her arms and stepped back. 'I have to get the tea ready, my dear. Go to your father or you'll make things worse for both of us. Go on now.' Tucking some stray strands of grey-flecked brown hair into the loose bun at the nape of her neck, she turned away and hurried out of the room.

Patricia gripped the sides of the seat with her hands, her knuckles white.

'Patricia!' she heard her father call. 'I'm counting.'

She gave a sharp intake of breath, slipped off the chair and ran towards the front room. The door was open and the Major stood waiting, a wooden ruler in his hand.

Enid perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes on her daughter's sobbing back.

'I wish I could have done something to help you, Patsy darling,' she said, pulling the blanket up over her daughter's shoulders. 'I did try, but you know what Daddy's like when he's angry. Please stop crying now. You'll make yourself ill.'

Patricia pulled the blanket over her head and cried more loudly.

Leaning forward, Enid gently uncovered her daughter's face. 'If you turn over, darling, you'll see I've brought you your tea, and I've given you our last piece of chocolate. You can have tea in bed as a treat, if you like. Then get some sleep.'

Her sobs slowing down, Patricia rolled over on to her back. She stared up at her mother with red-rimmed eyes.

'He hates me. Daddy hates me. He's always hated me.'

'Nonsense, darling. He loves you.'

'No, he doesn't. He loves James and he hates me. It's because he didn't see me when I was a baby. He saw James when he was a baby, but not me. That's why he doesn't like me.'

Enid stroked Patricia's long, blonde hair. 'You're wrong, Patsy — he does love you. He's just not good at showing it. It doesn't matter that he wasn't here when you were born. He's had the past five years to get to know you, and he knows what a lovely little girl you are.'

'Does he hate me because James is ill?'

Enid ran her finger down Patricia's cheek. 'He doesn't hate you, sweetheart.' She gave her a bright smile and took her hand. 'James being ill is very difficult for Daddy. It's hard for all of us, I know, but it's particularly hard for your father. He's used to being able to handle every situation, so he feels that he ought to be able to make James better. But he keeps on being told that there's nothing else that can be done for him. He won't let himself accept defeat, and he's taking his frustration out on you.'

She paused and looked anxiously at Patricia. 'That's a very grownup thing to say to you, Patsy. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Just because Daddy's very strict, perhaps a little too strict at times, it doesn't mean that he doesn't love you. He does.'

Patricia disentangled her hand from her mother's. 'No, he doesn't. He wishes I was ill and James was well.'

'You must never say that, darling. It isn't true. Daddy would be just as devastated if you were the one who was ill. You must believe that.' She leaned over and kissed Patricia on the forehead.

'No, he wouldn't.' She pushed her mother away, turned on her side and faced the wall. 'He hates me. And it's not fair.'

'I don't know what else I can say to convince you, darling,' Enid said helplessly, getting to her feet and looking down at Patricia. 'Eat your tea, then get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.' She hesitated a moment, then left the room.

Patricia heard the door click shut. She didn't move. If only Daddy had been at home when Mummy had gone into hospital for her to be born, but he hadn't been.

From the time that Patricia could talk, she regularly used to ask her mother to tell her the story about when she was born, and her mother would tell it to her again and again. Before long, she knew the story by heart.

She'd been born in Hampstead in June 1944. James was already two-and-a-half. Daddy had lived with them in London when James was little because he was recovering from a wound, but he'd been sent back to his regiment in North India two months before she was born. After the war had ended, he'd had to stay on in India as there were important things to do there, and he didn't come home until she was two.

Just after Daddy had gone to India, a bomb had hit their house. Mummy and James had been in the deep underground shelter at the time so they were safe, but it had been very frightening for Mummy, no longer having a house to live in and with another baby coming.

She had been very happy when a lady she knew, called Mary Shaw, had said that she and James could share her basement flat in Glenloch Road. Mummy had met Mary in the shelter. They used to lie on bunk beds next to each other, and try to pretend that the smell of wee wee in the air was really nice perfume.

Patricia had been in a great hurry to arrive, Mummy used to say with a smile. Three weeks before they'd thought she was going to arrive, Mummy had felt a pain and she knew that she would have to go into the hospital early. She'd been very worried about what to do with James, but Mary was kind and said she would look after him. James liked Mary and he could stay in a flat that he already knew. It had seemed perfect.

But things had gone wrong.

Mummy had had to stay in hospital for four weeks after she was born. During that time, doodlebug bombs started landing on London. They flew very low, Mummy explained, and they didn't have a pilot. They ran on fuel, and when the fuel ran out, the engine went very quiet, and a few seconds later the doodlebug fell out of the sky. Wherever they landed, they exploded with a big bang. Mummy said that the silence before they hit the ground was terrifying and people were very frightened of them.

The day that her mummy finally left the hospital was grey and unpleasant. The streets were empty, and all she could hear was the sound of the guns that were trying to stop the doodlebugs. She'd left the hospital and walked quickly down the hill, carrying baby Patricia in her arms, very excited at the thought of seeing James again.

It had been a whole month since she'd seen him. When she'd gone into the hospital, she'd told Mary not to come and see her because it would be too dangerous. And it would have been difficult to push the heavy pram up the steep hill to the hospital. But when she'd said that, she'd expected to be in the hospital for only a few days. As the days had turned into weeks, she'd begun to long to hear from her friend.

As she'd walked, her feet had crunched on bits of slate and broken glass that had been scattered across the pavement after a doodlebug attack. The air was thick with plaster and brick dust, and she'd tried not to breathe it in as she hurried past heaps of rubble that smelt of gas and burnt timber, praying that James was safe.

The closer she came to Mary's flat, the more excited she was. As soon as she'd seen the flat in the distance, she'd started to run and she hadn't stopped until she stood in front of the door. Her face a smile, she'd knocked on the door, but there'd been no answer: Mary and James were out. She'd taken her key from her pocket, unlocked the door and gone into the flat.

When she'd put baby Patricia into the large black pram in the corner of the room, she'd sat on the arm of a chair and started pushing the pram backwards and forwards, glancing around the room as she did so. That's funny, Mummy had thought, the picture of Mary's parents wasn't on the mantelshelf where it used to be, and Mary's collection of antique silver spoons had gone.

She'd stopped rocking the pram and stood up. Her heart thumping fast, she'd run into the bedroom and looked inside Mary's wardrobe. It was empty.

Mummy had hardly been able to breathe at that moment. She'd run back into the living room and stood there, her hand covering her mouth. Mary had disappeared and James had disappeared with her.

'What did you do next, Mummy?' she'd always ask at that point in the story.

'I picked you up and ran out of the flat. I'm not sure I even closed the door behind me. I asked everyone I saw if they knew anything about Mary and James. I asked the other people in the house — we shared a stove on the landing so we'd met each other — I asked the wardens and people in the air-raid shelter. Day after day, I stopped strangers in the street, went everywhere I could, asked everyone I met — but no one had seen them.'

'Poor Mummy.'

'I never saw Mary again. Eventually I heard that she'd been killed by a doodlebug. I imagine she'd been trying to take James out of London to safety. I assumed that he'd been killed, too. But a miracle happened, didn't it, darling?'

And Mummy would tell her how, six weeks after she'd left the hospital, James had been found by a nice air-raid warden. He'd been walking across the site of a bombed house a few streets away and had come across a little boy sitting on a pile of bricks. Even though he was filthy dirty and much thinner than the last time the warden had seen him, he recognised James and brought him back to Mummy.

'I was a very happy mummy when I had him back again, safe and not hurt,' Mummy used to say, sounding very sad. 'At least, I thought he wasn't hurt. But I was wrong, wasn't I, Patsy? He had been hurt. We just couldn't see it.'

Less than two weeks after James had been found, he'd fallen on to the floor, unconscious. His body had gone stiff, and he'd made a shape like an arch and had kept on jerking. At last, his body had relaxed and gone soft. He'd been sick and had then fallen asleep. Mummy said that she'd sat on the end of his bed all night, watching him while he slept.

She'd watched him closely the next day, and the day after that, and the following day, but carefully looking after Patricia at the same time, she'd assure her. The days passed and Mummy relaxed. Then, three weeks later, James fell down again. This time Mummy took him to the doctor. He said that it was too soon to know what to do and that Mummy should write down every detail about what happened when he fell, so that when the war was over, they would know how to help him.

When Mummy had returned home, she'd sat down to write a letter to Daddy to tell him about James being ill, but she'd changed her mind. James would probably get better, she'd thought, and she didn't want to worry Daddy if she didn't have to as he was very busy with the war.

But James hadn't got better; he'd got worse. Daddy had come home again when she was two. By then, James was four-and-a-half, and he was having a fit every week.

On the day that Daddy got home, James was so excited about seeing him that he had a very big fit and fell to the floor in front of Daddy. When Mummy had tucked him up in bed, she sat down with Daddy and told him how he'd got ill. Daddy didn't move or speak; he just sat there listening to her, staring at the spot where James had fallen.

The next week, he began to take James to see the best doctors in London.

All the doctors said that he must have been damaged by the bombs while he was lost, and they said that everyone in the family should be prepared for his fits to get worse and for it to be harder and harder to look after him by themselves.

Some of the doctors even suggested that they put James in a special home, but Daddy said no: James was going to get better and he was going to join Daddy's regiment.

By the time that she was seven, she knew exactly what to do when James had a fit.

She knew that her mummy and daddy relied on her to take care of him, and she was proud that she was a big girl and could help them. She didn't mind having to look after him — she loved him very much and she knew that he loved her — but she wanted her daddy to love her just like he loved James.

But he didn't. No matter how hard she tried to be a good girl, he only ever smiled at James. He never seemed to see her.

Her pillow damp beneath her cheek, she lay in her bed and stared at the wall.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "The Road Back"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Liz Harris.
Excerpted by permission of Choc Lit Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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