Batten Helen - The scarlet sisters : my nannas story of serets and heartache on the banks of the River Thames

Helen Batten is the Sunday Times bestselling author of Sisters of the East End and Confessions of a Showman. She studied history at Cambridge and then journalism at Cardiff University. She went on to become a producer and director at the BBC and now works as a writer and a psychotherapist. She lives in West London with her three daughters.

Oh my goodness another girl Mrs Swain!

Claras normal iron composure broke and she screamed, No! Thats not the bloody deal!

And that is how my nanna, Bertha Swain, entered the world.

When Helen Battens marriage breaks down, she starts on a journey of discovery into her familys past and the mysteries surrounding her enigmatic nannas early life.

What she unearths is a tale of five feisty red heads struggling to climb out of poverty and find love through two world wars. Its a story full of surprises and scandal a death in a workhouse, a son kept in a box, a shameful war record, a clandestine marriage and children taken far too soon. Its as if there is a family curse.

But Helen also finds love, resilience and hope crazy wagers, late night Charlestons and stolen kisses. As she unravels the story of Nanna and her scarlet sisters, Helen starts to break the spell of the past, and sees a way she might herself find love again.

I would like to thank my mum, her brothers, Nigel and John, and my second cousins, Brian and his wife Barbara; Jean, Dennis, Jackie, Angela and Barry for all their help in writing this book. Of course I couldnt have done it without them. Not only did they answer my questions with honesty, courage and humour, but they welcomed me into their homes and their lives.

I would also like to thank Professor Peter Clarke, formerly my supervisor at St Johns College, Cambridge, who, as ever, answered my call with both seriousness and kindness, and guided my research into the context of my nannas and her sisters lives. I would like to say a special thank you to Rob Thompson of the Western Front Association and Chris Baker of fourteeneighteen. Id also like to give a big cheer to the London Metropolitan Archives for their interest and enthusiasm in this project.

Thank you too, to Emma Heard and Sally Floyer, precious friends and unofficial editors, who have been with me all the way, and to Laurie Slade for his wisdom. I am also grateful to my editor, Charlotte Cole, who once again has been a joy to work with.

Im deeply grateful to my daughters Amber, Scarlett and Daisy for all sorts of things. But in this instance you have tolerated endless streams of family anecdotes and I have appreciated your support and excitement for me and for the book.

Lastly, thank you to David Thompson, for being my special correspondent and historical consultant.

My great-grandfather, Charlie Swain, was blown into my great-grandmother Clara Crisps life with a strong westerly wind on an autumn afternoon in 1897.

He was standing on the doorstep of the small terraced house in Lant Street SE1, a flutter of copper leaves dancing around his ginger head, with only a wicked grin on his face and his worldly goods in a rucksack slung over his shoulder.

It was my great-great-grandmother, Sarah Crisp, who greeted him on the doorstep. Heres trouble, she thought, and with her seven daughters in mind, felt a twinge of apprehension.

Mrs Crisp? Im your new lodger.

Oh. Not too tall, are you?

Charlie was indeed pushing to reach five foot four, but he was strong, and he had a sense of humour. Charlie Swain, pleased to meet you. Hasnt anyone ever told you, Mrs Crisp, that nice things come in small packages?

Yes, well, so does poison, young man. Guess youd better come in, then, she said, struggling to stop a smile, and ushered him into the kitchen where the baby of the family, my great-grandmother, Clara, was busy making biscuits.

They looked at each other over the kitchen table.

It wasnt love at first sight, at least Clara didnt think so at the time. But Charlie did make an immediate impression. Years later, when pressed by her daughters, all Clara could say was, He seemed to fill the room, like the westerly wind had blown in something exotic, which would send them into a chorus of giggles because, by that time, the last thing Charlie seemed was exotic.

But, back then, when he was only nineteen, what Charlie did brim over with was confidence, his wide, freckly face open to the world, just daring stuff to happen.

Which piqued Sarahs curiosity. So, take a seat then, Charlie Swain. Tell me, how come youve landed in the lovely borough of Southwark? Youre not a Londoner, are you? I can sniff it.

No, Mrs Crisp, your nose is right. Im not a Londoner. Im a black sheep that has been cast from the flock as a result of a large misunderstanding and a small amount of high spirits.

Oh, dear, I sense a tale, Sarah said, sitting herself down and getting comfortable gossip was oxygen in this house of eight women.

A tale that is not to be told. Sorry to disappoint, but Im turning over a new leaf and drawing a line under. Im sure you understand. Ive travelled away from the scene of my alleged crime, and left it behind. Im starting tomorrow at the brewery, next door. Im an engineer. Im good at fixing things.

Well, thatll be handy, wont it, Clara? Sarah said, glancing in the direction of her daughter.

Clara had kept her head down, busy with her biscuits, but not a crumb of this conversation had passed her by. She was determined to carry on with her work she was kneading the dough and cutting out shapes but Charlie Swains gaze seemed to be having a wobbly effect on her fingers.

Come on, Clara. Cat got your tongue? Sarah said.

Clara looked up. Yes. Handy, indeed. She had her sleeves rolled up, showing her dainty wrists, while a tightly tied apron showed off her waist. The look was completed with a light dusting of flour on her cheek.

I hope I can be of service, Charlie said, and once again Sarah felt uneasy.

Well, well see about that, young man. Anyway, Claras handy at making pastries and cakes and all sorts of treats for the bakers around here, arent you, my dove?

Charlie could see she was blushing as she started cutting out shapes in the dough once again.

Save some for our Rosie Lee. Ill make you a cup. You must be parched, Sarah said.

Charlie was only too happy to settle himself down, but the cockney rhyming slang confused him a bit. Also, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on Sarah Crisp when her youngest daughter was doing such pretty things with her hands. Her fingers gently but firmly pressed the dough into dainty shapes: butterflies, shells, crowns and flowers. Intricate yet effortless. Charlie was slightly mesmerised, and he got a familiar impulse to make a shy girl smile. While Sarah had her back to them, he found himself grabbing a small corner of the dough and fashioning it into a heart, then sliding it without a word back to Clara, who looked up, astonished.

Charlie and Clara were exact opposites. But when this couple of nineteen-year-olds looked at each other Charlies dazzling sharp periwinkle eyes looking into Claras brown, gentle eyes they felt like they had met before. Without thinking, just as her mother turned around, Clara hurriedly put the heart into her apron pocket and looked back at Charlie. They held each others gaze.

Why do opposites attract? Hearing my mum and her cousins talk about Charlie and Clara makes me think of magnets pulling towards their polar opposites, as if we can be repelled by partners whose personality is too similar and hopelessly drawn to those who are different. Perhaps we choose people who appear to give us the very qualities we lack, as part of a natural quest for completion. Or perhaps its just a recipe for marital disaster