The Walls We Build by Jules Hayes
Three
friends …
Growing
up together around Winston Churchill’s estate in Westerham, Kent,
Frank, Florence and Hilda are inseparable. But as WW2 casts its
menacing shadow, friendships between the three grow complex, and
Frank – now employed as Churchill’s bricklayer – makes choices
that will haunt him beyond the grave, impacting his grandson’s
life too.
Two
Secrets …
Shortly
after Frank's death in 2002 Florence writes to Richard, Frank’s
grandson, hinting at the darkness hidden within his family. On
investigation, disturbing secrets come to light, including a
pivotal encounter between Frank and Churchill during the war and the
existence of a mysterious relative in a psychiatric hospital.
One
Hidden Life …
How
much more does Florence dare reveal about Frank – and herself –
and is Richard ready to hear?
Set
against the stunning backdrop of Chartwell, Churchill’s country
home, comes a tragic story of misguided honour, thwarted love and
redemption, reverberating through three generations and nine decades.
For
readers of Kate Morton, Rachel Hore, Katherine Webb, Lucinda Riley
and Juliet West.
“Passion,
intrigue and family secrets drive this complex wartime relationship
drama. A page turner. I loved it.”
#1 bestselling author, Nicola May
It’s
early September 1940 in London at the beginning of the Blitz, this
extract is told from Florence’s viewpoint. She hasn’t seen Frank
for several years and is meeting him in a London café. Frank has
been in hospital since his rescue in the Dunkirk campaign.
Florence
arrived at the café just off Oxford Street at midday. She ordered
herself a cup of tea and a scone, and waited at a table by the
window.
She
saw Frank before he saw her. He crossed the street, looking utterly
out of place amongst the city bustle and even from where she was
sitting, she saw his look of concern directed at the sandbags; she
also saw how he’d grown prematurely old. The grey at his temples
striking, lines like furrows on his once smooth forehead, his
six-foot frame hunched in the light military coat he wore, wrapped
tightly around his body, as if crumpling up against the elements.
The
sun was high in a crystal-clear London sky. It was touching eighty
degrees in the shade.
Frank’s
face glowed as he caught sight of Florence through the window. A heat
of expectancy rose in her too. Nostalgia and a sense of homesickness
for Westerham plunged through her, as did the memory of the fledgling
love for a man who didn’t belong to her. But then, an image of Anna
in an asylum dug into her mind. Perhaps Frank had changed as much
inside as he had on the outside. Perhaps she didn’t know him
anymore.
He
swung open the café’s heavy wooden door allowing a burst of heat
and noise into the small space. The bombs had abated for the last
eighteen hours leaving the population of London not at all quiet, if
anything enlivened. War had brought chaos and madness and grief to
the capital city but also a consistent stoicism, leaving behind
forever the capriciousness of the previous decade. In London Florence
felt more encased within the humanity of her fellow human beings than
she’d ever experienced within her own village. She met London in
its darkest moments, became infatuated with the city as she imagined
she could be with a mysterious, dangerous, or even forbidden, lover.
‘Flo,
you look wonderful,’ Frank said, standing next to her chair in full
army uniform. His face cracked into a hint of a smile. Good to see
him. So good. She made to stand. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘No, don’t get up.’ He stared into her face. ‘You really do
look great. War suits you, Flo.’
‘I
wouldn’t say that. But getting away from Westerham does.
‘I
thought you loved it at Chartwell?’
‘I
did.’
‘This
war’ll last longer than the Great War, you know. You’ll be away
from home longer than you think.’
The
unforgiving sun pouring through the window did him no favours and
guilt passed through her at her own enjoyment of Europe’s conflict.
Frank was part of the war proper.
‘Sit
down, Frank.’ She pointed to the chair. So good to see him.
She
asked the waitress to bring two more cups of tea and two more scones.
Frank looked as if he needed fattening up. They said nothing, only
looked at each other whilst they waited.
The
waitress placed the scones on the table, scrutinising Frank and his
uniform. He seemed oblivious. Florence watched him too, seeing what
the waitress saw. A good-looking bloke returned from fighting.
‘This
is on the house, for our soldier here,’ the waitress said, bending
forward a little, getting closer to Frank, checking his ring finger.
He’d never worn a wedding ring. ‘My brother’s been drafted.
He’s in East Africa.’ Her face opened up just talking about her
brother. ‘I didn’t even know where Africa was until I looked it
up in a book. He’ll be all right though, won’t he? I mean you
are, cos you’re here.’
Frank
hadn’t looked at the waitress once, not directly. She was a very
pretty girl and Florence guessed she’d have a lot of admirers.
Frank didn’t appear to notice.
He
answered but was looking at Florence. ‘What regiment’s he with?’
‘First
Battalion Essex, Artillery.’
Finally
he caught the waitress’s eye. ‘Your brother’ll be fine.
Probably safer there than it is in London at the moment.
‘You
think so?’
He
smiled. ‘I really do.’
‘If
you want more tea and the last few scones, let me know. On the
house.’ The extra wiggle she displayed as she walked away wasn’t
for Florence’s benefit.
Frank
had long since stopped looking at the girl.
Despite
the melancholic expression Frank carried there was no question about
his attractiveness. But he was married, and married to Hilda,
although Florence conceded it wasn’t as if she was reluctant to get
involved with men before marriage; oh no, absolutely not. In her late
twenties Florence was not a virgin and when she allowed herself to
remember who she’d had that very first unsatisfactory fumble with,
the heat of mild shame bit through her; shame only because the whole
experience had been so cold. Her dalliance with William Barnes had
been before Jem had walked down the aisle with him, so she didn’t
feel any guilt about sleeping with a married man. It had though, been
a mistake.
Frank
had fallen quiet. Florence’s stomach tightened as she took in the
leanness of his body, the thickness of his hair, the way his violet
eyes slanted when he smiled. ‘I’m so relieved you got home
alive,’ she said. ‘I would’ve been distraught… you know, if
it’d turned out differently. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
From the corner of her eye she spotted the waitress studying them.
Jules is currently working on her second historical novel, another dual timeline story.
Jules also writes contemporary thriller and speculative fiction as JA Corrigan.
Jules also writes contemporary thriller and speculative fiction as JA Corrigan.
Website: https://www.jules-hayes.com/
Twitter @JulesHayes6 - http://www.twitter.com/JulesHayes6
Facebook Author Page: JulesHayesAuthor - http://www.facebook.com/JulesHayesAuthor
Instagram: JulesHayes6 - http://www.instagram.com/juleshayes6
Writing as JA Corrigan, Jules can be found at: Website: http://www.jacorrigan.com
Twitter: @juliannwriter - http://www.twitter.com/juliannwriter
Facebook Author Page: JA Corrigan - http://www.facebook.com/jacorrigan
Instagram: corriganjulieann http://www.instagram.com/corriganjulieann
Giveaway to Win a Signed copy of The Walls We Build (Open INT)
*Terms and Conditions –Worldwide entries welcome. Please enter using the Rafflecopter box below. The winner will be selected at random via Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be notified by Twitter and/or email. If no response is received within 7 days then Rachel’s Random Resources reserves the right to select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged 18 or over. Any personal data given as part of the competition entry is used for this purpose only and will not be shared with third parties, with the exception of the winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway organiser and used only for fulfilment of the prize, after which time Rachel’s Random Resources will delete the data. I am not responsible for despatch or delivery of the prize.
