They heard the door leading to the yard open and Alan came in. ‘You all right, Mum?’
His parents sprang apart and Bet busied herself filling the kettle. Their son sat himself down at the table.
‘Your mother’s upset because we had to make the nipper cry,’ Lorry said gruffly. ‘She was bottling everything in and the doc said it wasn’t good for her.’
Their son moved to the window and looked out. ‘Well, will you look at that!’ he exclaimed.
They both joined him. A chicken stood on the gate post beside Frankie pecking at her hair, not viciously but gently, like a kiss. She was a beautiful bird, with burnt orange coloured glossy feathers and an intelligent look. The smallholding was home to three varieties of chicken, the dark grey and white flecked Sussex, the black Australorp and a few like this one, a Rhode Island Red. Frankie’s shoulders stopped moving and she reached out to stroke its back. The chicken didn’t move away but made a soft warbling sound as she came closer.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Lorry.
Frankie had taken the bird down from the gate post and was sitting on the tree stump with it in her lap.
‘She’s a beautiful bird,’ said Bet, ‘and she must have flown up there herself.’
‘I’ve never seen any of the others on that post,’ Alan agreed. ‘It’s quite high up. She couldn’t have jumped up there … could she?’
‘I must have missed that one when I clipped all of their flight feathers,’ said Lorry. ‘I’ll do it now.’
‘No,’ said Bet, grabbing his forearm as she watched the child stroking the bird’s back. ‘Don’t do that.’
Lorry gave her a quizzical look.
‘Apart from her doll, that bird is the only thing I’ve seen Frankie relate to since she came here,’ said Bet.
Bet waited a few more minutes and then went out into the yard. Frankie didn’t look up as she came towards her but Bet saw her back stiffen. It made her feel awful. The chicken gave an indignant squawk as she pushed her aside to sit next to her niece. Frankie lifted her arm as if to wipe her tears and snot with her sleeve but Bet held a clean handkerchief in front of her. She waited until the child had cleaned her face.
‘All those horrible things I said about your mum,’ Bet said gently. ‘They weren’t true.’
Frankie turned to her, swollen-eyed.
‘It was me,’ Bet went on, the shame and guilt from all those years ago finally coming out. ‘I was the one who was jealous. I took the laces out of her shoes, and I was the one who tore your mum’s dress, not the other way around.’
Frankie frowned, clearly puzzled.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ Bet went on miserably, ‘but the doctor said it wasn’t good for you to keep it all in. He said I had to make you cry and this was the only way I could think of.’
‘The man said I mustn’t cry,’ said Frankie.
‘Man? What man?’
Frankie told her about the St John Ambulance man. ‘He said mummy wouldn’t want me to make a fuss.’
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Bet, her voice breaking. ‘I don’t think he meant it quite like that.’
Her aunt put her arm around Frankie’s shoulders and the little girl rested her head on her chest. ‘Of course you can cry. It’s perfectly natural to cry because your poor mummy died.’
They stayed like that for some time, each lost in her own thoughts and mourning the enormity of their loss until Frankie said, ‘Did you know my mummy once knew a real Russian princess?’
Bet had heard the story many times but as she smiled down at her niece she said, ‘Did she really? When was that then?’
Frankie blew her nose. ‘Well, it was a very long time ago, before I was even born …’
Five
North Farm, Sussex, 1937
‘But you promised!’
Frankie Sherwood stood with her hands on her hips, her legs akimbo and a thunderous look on her face. Her cousin Alan was doing his best to ignore her as he struggled to replace the light bulb in the front of his motorbike.
Not quite fifteen, Frankie had lived with her cousins for almost five years. It had taken a while to get used to the change in lifestyle but now she embraced it fully. From the moment Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry saw the affinity she had with the only flying chicken in the coop, Frankie had been put in charge of the hens. She made it her business to know all about them and their egg production, making it into a serious business. Frankie’s hens were very productive. Some of her best layers gave her as many as two hundred and fifty eggs a year. If for some reason a hen’s egg laying dropped, she would give her special attention for a while but if all else failed, that chicken would be a candidate for the next Sunday roast. However, Frankie’s pet chicken, which she’d called Loopy-Lu, was still around. Now five years old, she was hale and hearty and a good layer. She was a good looker too. Her feathers were a lovely russet red and she had a keen eye. Frankie’s chicken had always been the independent sort, refusing to go into the hen house at night with the others. Loopy-Lu preferred to roost on one of the upper branches of the tree and Uncle Lorry reckoned she could live for anything up to eight years providing she kept out of the way of foxes.
As time went by, Frankie grew closer to her cousins and they became more like brothers and sister. Normally boys didn’t mix very much with girls but Ronald and Alan included her in the things they did. After a while, Frankie lowered her guard and grew more relaxed. She learned a lot about motorbikes. The lads loved all things mechanical and eventually Frankie was captivated by their passion for riding. At first she watched them as they tinkered with and repaired their machines, but after a few months she wanted to do more. Alan let her check the battery and change the oil, making sure the filters were clean. Soon she was cleaning carburettors, taking off the rear wheel, and removing the drum cover to check the brakes by herself. Before long, she could strip a machine down, clean it and put it back together again – no trouble at all. Uncle Lorry said she was a natural.
A little after her thirteenth birthday, she’d managed to persuade the boys to let her have a go on one of Uncle Lorry’s old bikes. They’d waited until Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry had gone out because they were all pretty sure Aunt Bet would never allow it. The bike was a bit clapped out but they’d got it going and she’d sat on the saddle with the engine firing under her for the first time. It was magic.
‘Take her right round the path and up the hill,’ said Alan. ‘Remember to open the throttle when you go up and keep your speed up.’
Frankie had been so excited. Ronald and Alan stood either side of the bike to hold her steady. After a couple of false starts when she stalled the engine, she was off. It was great on the flat but then she had to tackle the incline. Nervous, she took the rise too slowly. The minute she made contact with rough ground, she knew she didn’t have enough speed to go on. She’d tried to rectify the situation but she already knew it was far too late. She was going to fall. When it happened, it was in slow motion, like a moment in a Marx Brothers movie or something from a Will Hay film. The bike leaned heavily to the right and Frankie felt her bottom slide from the saddle as it tilted over, ever so slowly. Holding the handlebars tight, she’d managed to get her right foot down and push herself away from the heavy machine, but she couldn’t get a firm foothold. Staggering in an ungainly way, her legs being forced apart by the mud, she’d let out a loud squeal. The next moment, she’d hit the ground. Fortunately, it wasn’t on the hard packed soil but on a patch of squidgy mud, which softened the blow. The bike was on its side and she’d been relieved that she wasn’t trapped underneath or hurt.
She’d tried to stand but her feet squelched in the mud and she went down again. Frankie tried a second time but the same thing happened. As she went down a third time she saw Alan running up the hill towards her. Ronald was still by the barn, laughing his head off.
‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ Alan cried.
He held his arm out but as Frankie grabbed his hand, his feet slithered apart and he fell beside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered.
By then Ronald was beside himself. Alan frowned, but seeing the state they were both in, he began to laugh. After a moment or two, Frankie began to laugh as well and before long, they were all helpless. Eventually Alan managed to crawl on his hands and knees towards a small grass verge and finally found his feet. Frankie did the same.
‘That was the funniest thing I ever saw,’ Ronald said.
Now, almost a year later, Frankie had proved herself to be an accomplished rider, even managing to impress her aunt and uncle. But she was confined to the farm. Frankie’s one desire was to race but it was well-nigh impossible to find a meeting where girls were allowed to take part. The meeting this Saturday was no exception. Alan had just told her she couldn’t go.
‘You let me do all that work on the bike,’ Frankie said crossly, ‘and now you refuse to let me ride. It’s not fair!’
Alan shrugged. ‘It’s not me. It’s the system. Rules is rules.’
‘I don’t see why we have to stick to the rules when they are so stupid,’ Frankie fumed. ‘I bet you’re only saying that because you don’t want to be beaten by a girl.’
Her cousin chuckled. ‘Are you serious? A tiddler like you beat the men? Don’t be daft.’
Frankie’s eyes blazed. Alan stood up, his heavily Brylcreemed hair glistening. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I can’t do anything about it, Frankie. Girls aren’t allowed.’
Turning on her heel, Frankie stomped off.
The Sussex Trials brought bike riders from all over the county and had become quite an event. A couple of years ago, Uncle Lorry had cleared a patch of ground by the boundary line with Lyon’s Farm and they’d cordoned it off as a car park. The route Alan and Ronald – and lately, Frankie – had used had been refined and recreated into a proper race track. A couple of chaps who had converted an old caravan into a mobile kitchen had asked him if they could make teas and sandwiches for the punters and Uncle Lorry was happy to let them do it, especially when he could charge them a small fee. With the growing numbers of people turning up for race meetings, the track was proving to be a nice little earner and it took far less graft to keep it going than a day working on the smallholding. Aunt Bet sold eggs at the door and when extra produce was available from the vegetable patch, she bagged up anything spare. She was getting a bit of a reputation with her honey from the beehives and apples from the orchard as well as gooseberries, redcurrants and raspberries when they were in season.
Of course, Frankie had ridden the course many times, but never in a competitive race. Kick-starting was a bit of a problem. At only five foot one inch, her short legs meant that Frankie found it hard to get enough power behind her thrust to get the bike started. Never one to be beaten, she soon discovered that if she put the other foot onto a box or a bit of higher ground, she could put more force into it and bring the lever down quicker.
‘Why the grumpy face?’ said Aunt Bet as she walked in the door with a basket full of eggs.
‘They won’t let me ride on Bank Holiday Monday,’ Frankie said bitterly. ‘It’s so unfair. Just because I’m a girl.’
Her aunt shook her head sympathetically. ‘I know, but they don’t call it a scramble for nothing. Those competitors are very ruthless.’
‘But I’m just as good as the boys,’ said Frankie, ‘and I don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool.’
‘You may be right,’ Aunt Bet said sagely, ‘but until people realise that, nobody’s going to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
Frankie smiled to herself. Now that was food for thought.
Six
Frankie’s friend Barbara was waiting for her when she got off the bus outside the church in Worthing. They’d been friends ever since Frankie changed schools soon after her mother died. She’d lost contact with the girls who came to her birthday picnic on Hillbarn almost five years ago. She missed Jenny Ruddock a bit but she hardly ever thought of the other girls from her old school. It was as if they were part of a whole different life. Of course she remembered her mother and there were still times when her grief and loss would overwhelm her for a while. When that happened, Frankie would either shut herself in her room for a bit or take a walk with Loopy-Lu. The silly old chicken seemed to sense when she was upset and tagged along to give her a friendly peck or a sympathetic crow.
There was still so much she didn’t understand. They had told her that her mother had had a heart attack that was so catastrophic she had died almost immediately – but why had someone gone through all of her stuff? There was a hint that it might have been something to do with her knowing a Russian princess, but anyone could see her mother didn’t have many personal possessions, let alone anything valuable. Frankie had her own suspicions. There was talk of a foreign gentleman being seen at the house but she’d always blamed Mr Knight. When he’d turned up on her birthday and broken up the party, her mother had said: ‘What my Ernie and I had was something special.’ For years she’d thought that was significant, but now that she was older she realised it was nothing to do with owning a piece of jewellery. Her mother was trying to stop Mr Knight turning up whenever he wanted to and making advances. But he never listened and he could have come back to search for something.
There wasn’t a lot left from her old life. Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry had cleared up the mess the intruder had left behind in the rooms which had been her home with her mother, and they brought back a few bits and pieces. There was no money. Whoever searched the place had taken the rent money and the little Frankie knew her mother had put by for a rainy day. The doctor’s wife claimed her dress but she said she’d paid in advance, and although Frankie heard Aunt Bet telling Uncle Lorry she didn’t believe it, there was no proof to say otherwise. Aunt Bet took her mum’s leftover material to her WI meeting and some of the ladies used it to make baby dresses and pretty nightdress cases which went into their weekly sale to raise funds for needy causes. ‘At least it did somebody some good,’ Aunt Bet had said dryly.
Now, Frankie waved to her friend and crossed the road. Barbara was a fun-loving girl. She was quite a bit taller than Frankie and she fancied herself as very mature. Her mother had just bought her daughter her first brassiere and Barbara was very conscious of her burgeoning breasts. She was beginning to notice boys as well, especially Frankie’s cousin Alan. Frankie was pleased about that. It would come in handy as part of the plan.
The girls linked arms and headed for the Rivoli cinema where the beautiful Margaret Lockwood was starring in The Lady Vanishes. Barbara was full of a flirtation she’d just had with a boy on the bus so it was a while before Frankie could get a word in edgeways.
‘Listen, Barbara,’ she began, ‘There’s something I want you to do for me. Would you come to the race meeting on Saturday?’
Barbara pulled a face. ‘Not really. It’s so muddy. I’ll ruin my shoes.’
‘Can’t you wear wellingtons?’
‘Wellingtons!’ Barbara squeaked. ‘Don’t be silly! “A lady has to look elegant at all times”,’ she said, quoting Miss Rose, their Home Craft and Deportment teacher at school.
Frankie sighed. ‘It’s really important,’ she insisted.
Something in her voice must have convinced Barbara because she listened without interrupting as Frankie explained the situation. As they arrived outside the cinema and joined the queue, Barbara seemed hesitant and Frankie’s enthusiasm dipped when she saw the expression on her friend’s face.
‘Will your cousin Alan be there?’
‘He’s the one I want you to distract,’ said Frankie, getting a florin out of her purse for the cinema ticket.
Barbara swung her shoulders back so that the outline of her new bra under her jumper showed its full effect. ‘All right,’ she cooed. ‘You’re on.’
*
August Bank Holiday Monday was warm and sunny, even though it had rained all week. As a result, the track was muddy and rutted. Uncle Lorry and the boys had spent the morning marking out the course with posts and white tape so that by the time the officials from the Sussex Dirt Bike Trials Association arrived at around noon, everything was as it should be. The race meeting itself was due to begin at two.
Bet was alone in her kitchen doing the washing up. Lorry and the boys had come in to grab a hot drink and a bite to eat and she’d taken the opportunity to prepare a shepherd’s pie for tea. In a minute she would take a chair down by the farm gate to sell some eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers and a few bags containing the first crop of plums.
People started gathering at the trials just before one and made their way to the best viewpoints. A few hung around the start and some preferred the finishing line, but the majority trudged up the hill towards the grassy knoll with a line of trees beyond. From here, the views of the Sussex countryside were spectacular. Most spectators came prepared with sandwiches in a rucksack but some, who had probably already had their meal, relied on the mobile caravan and its cups of tea.
As Bet wiped the last plate, she glanced out of the kitchen window and something caught her eye. Frankie was walking towards the race track with a small suitcase in her hand. For a split second, Bet thought it might be the blue case full of her mother’s belongings, but as she leaned towards the window pane she could see that this suitcase was brown.
Frankie glanced nervously over her left shoulder and then her right. Bet pulled herself back from the window. It was then that she noticed Barbara running up towards Frankie. Bet frowned. What were they up to? The two girls had a brief exchange, then parted. Barbara headed towards the temporary shelter where the competitors gathered with their machines. Young riders from all over the county had descended on the farm and it was here that they registered and tied their entry numbers around their waists. Frankie, still carrying her suitcase, walked towards the toilet tent. Bet tut-tutted and dried her hands on the tea towel. If those girls made a nuisance of themselves there would be trouble.
Barbara was a bit scared that she’d give the game away while she got Frankie’s registration done but it turned out to be quite easy. All the riders queued behind a small trestle table. The officials on the other side of the table checked the name of the competitor against a list on a clipboard. One did the paperwork whilst the other handed out the race numbers, which were on a sort of bib that went on the rider’s back and tied around his waist at the front. All she had to do was say the name of the competitor and hand over the race fee.
By the time she’d reached the table, Barbara’s heart was in her mouth. Supposing they could see through the excuse she and Frankie had dreamt up? Supposing the officials frog-marched her away? Supposing they called the police? She was shaking like a leaf and her face flamed as she held out the papers.
The man behind the table looked her up and down and gave her a broad smile. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re not planning to race.’
Barbara shook her head. Behind her she could hear muffled laughter. Just as she’d practised with Frankie, Barbara leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The official rustled some papers and struggled not to smile. She watched him check the names on his clipboard and put a cross beside one of them. Then his colleague gave Barbara the number forty-six and she moved away from the table. She hadn’t gone very far before she heard the man say, ‘Poor blighter sent his sister ’cos he’s so bloody nervous he’s stuck in the bog.’ His comment was followed by a gale of masculine laughter.
Having made sure no one was looking, Frankie locked herself in one of the temporary toilets. It was only a wooden bench over a large hole and even at this early stage of the meeting it didn’t smell very pleasant. She put her suitcase over the gap and opened it up. It didn’t take long to change. She put her all-in-ones on over her overalls and tucked all of her blond hair into the leather cap. Pulling her scarf over her nose, she fastened the flaps firmly under her chin. Her new regulation pudding bowl helmet fitted over the top. She heard a slight sound on the other side of the door and Barbara whispered her name. Frankie opened the door and Barbara held up her registration papers and her number.
With her entry papers in her top pocket, Frankie pulled on her eye goggles. Not even her own aunt would recognise her now. She darted round the back of the toilets to where she’d parked her bike under a piece of canvas tarpaulin. Putting one foot on the suitcase, she kick-started the engine. Now she had reached the most dangerous part. Whatever she did, she had to keep the engine going. If she stalled she’d be out of the race and if anyone realised she was a woman, she’d be banned under the stupid ‘no girls allowed’ rule. As she passed the place where the officials sat at their tables, she saw her friend making eyes at Alan. Good old Barbara. She was doing a grand job.
Seven
Frankie took it steady getting to the start line. She knew if she went too fast she might draw attention to herself and if she went too slowly, she could wobble and fall sideways. There were about twenty or so riders in this race, the high-pitched whine of the engines now and then changing into a spluttering roar as men revved the throttles of their bikes. Frankie kept her head bent towards her chest. Her heart was in her mouth. It was imperative to keep her engine running. There was no way she could kick-start again without her foot on the suitcase and the minute Alan saw what she was doing, he would know it was her. After what seemed like an age, the green flag went down and they were off.
Lower down the field, Barbara was enjoying herself now. Having given Frankie her papers and race number, she had embarked on the next stage of the plan which was far more enjoyable: distracting Alan while Frankie made her way to the starting line. She found him with a small group of bikers admiring someone’s machine. When she said his name, he raised an eyebrow.
‘Barbara, what are you doing here?’
Barbara lowered her eyes in the same coquettish way she had seen the beautiful Jean Harlow do in her last film, Saratoga.
‘I came to see the races.’
‘No,’ said Alan, ‘I meant what are you doing here? This part is reserved for competitors and their machines.’
Barbara pretended to be horrified. ‘Oh my! I am so sorry.’ She looked about her. ‘I’m so confused,’ she said helplessly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Frankie in the line of riders making their way up the hill from the starting line. ‘Oh dear, dear. There’s white tape everywhere,’ Barbara wailed. ‘Which way do I go?’
Alan wiped his hands with a greasy-looking cloth and threw it onto the saddle. ‘Why don’t I show you?’ Behind them both, his mates sniggered.
‘Oh, would you?’ Barbara purred happily. ‘That would be wonderful.’
*
Frankie’s inexperience of racing became apparent almost straight away. As the faster riders took off, she was left floundering in a shower of mud, exhaust fumes and small stones. Her goggles protected her eyes but she was looking at the track through a brown smear. For a few frantic seconds she wobbled furiously but as luck would have it, she corrected the bike and held it steady while she hastily wiped her lenses with the palm of her gloved hand.
The first part of the track was up a steep incline. Frankie found herself leaning slightly forward in the saddle as she followed the pack. She knew the course like the back of her hand and negotiated the dry patch on the other side of the hill carefully.
