The Shipyard Girls on the Home Front

by Nancy Revell

  Gloria chuckled as she helped make a path through the crowd of bodies back to their table. They arrived just in time to hear the end of the discussion about what the women were all going to wear to Pearl’s wedding.

  ‘A toast,’ Dorothy declared, raising her glass.

  ‘To what?’ Martha asked.

  ‘To love, of course!’ Dorothy said.

  ‘To love,’ everyone chorused.

  Everyone was well aware, though, that Dorothy was not thinking about Pearl and Bill when they all clinked glasses, but the love in her own life – or rather her hopes of seeing Toby on his knee and a big sparkling diamond ring in his hand in the near future.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two days later

  Friday 3 March

  Able Seaman Bobby Armstrong felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up.

  ‘Sorry?’ He turned his head so that he could hear.

  ‘Can I see your travel papers?’ the conductor asked, more loudly. He had thought the sailor sitting looking out the window was purposely ignoring him, or asleep.

  ‘Course,’ Bobby said, rifling around in his duffel bag and producing the requested documentation.

  The inspector gave it a quick once-over and handed it back before moving on to a naval officer sitting further down the bus. He guessed, judging by the number of navy blue sailor suits and a couple of officer’s uniforms, that a ship had just docked.

  Bobby watched the inspector make his way down the aisle, scrutinising everyone’s travel cards. The men from the ship he’d cadged a lift with from Iceland would have return tickets. They’d be back on deck later that evening. His, on the other hand, was one-way. He wouldn’t be back on any kind of deck any time soon. Some, he knew, would have given anything to be heading home now – away from the horrors of war, back to the warm embrace of families, wives and children, but he wasn’t one of them. He looked down at his travel warrant and shoved it back in his duffel bag. His life’s possessions were stuffed into a two-foot-long denim bag. Seeing the edge of his medical discharge certificate, he pulled it out and looked at it. He read the words unilateral hearing loss. The loss of hearing in his left ear had brought about the end of his naval life.

  As the bus went over a pothole, Bobby automatically grabbed the rail of the seat in front of him. Looking out into the darkness, he thought about his father. At least he would not be there to greet him when he arrived back home, although what had possessed Vinnie to sign up for active duty was beyond him. Bobby had lost count of the number of times he, Gordon and his mam had been forced to listen to Vinnie’s beer-fuelled rantings about having done his duty in the First War and if there were ever another, he’d tell them exactly where they could stick their conscription form. Perhaps his father had turned over a new leaf, got a sudden bout of patriotism? Somehow, he doubted it.

  Looking back down at the creased certificate, Bobby felt his fist clench in frustration as he thought about his own need to fight Jerry – and how it had been ripped away from him. If he’d just been a few feet further from the funnel when it had taken a hit, then the piece of steel that had come flying off would have skimmed past him and not smacked him on the side of the head, knocking him clean out, leaving him with a deep gash that needed a fair few stitches and a headache like no other for days on end.

  The real damage, though, couldn’t be seen. The first he was aware of anything serious being wrong was when he’d woken up with pus, tinged with blood, coming out of his left ear. He’d sat up and felt shooting pains in his head on top of the headache from hell. The doc had taken a look and diagnosed a middle-ear infection, and asked him if he could hear anything in that ear. Bobby had told him that he could – a shrill ringing. He hadn’t liked the way the doc had looked and the way he’d told him it would be a case of ‘wait and see’. He’d waited, and whenever the doctor came to see him, he’d lied outright when asked if he felt dizzy or nauseous. He’d lied again a few weeks later when the ringing finally subsided, saying he could hear fine. The doctor hadn’t believed him; he was no fool. A simple test disproved Bobby’s claim. He had tried to bribe the ship’s doctor, who had told him sternly that he would pretend his hearing had failed.

  Bobby had gone to see the captain and practically begged him to keep him on board, trying his utmost to convince him that the hearing in his left ear would come back eventually – what did doctors know? And what did it matter that he couldn’t hear in one ear? He could still be a seaman – he could still do his job. But even though Bobby had argued his case as though attempting to beat the death penalty, his captain had given him his marching orders, albeit reluctantly.

  ‘Your hearing loss could jeopardise your own safety – as well as those you’re fighting alongside. You can go back home a hero, Armstrong,’ the captain had told him. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the reverse. You’ll be getting medals to prove it.’

  Bobby had wanted to retort that he felt no shame, nor did he give a damn about any medals, he just wanted to carry on doing what he’d been doing. He wanted to fight to the bitter end until Jerry was beaten. But it was no good, the doctor had given his final diagnosis: two months had passed and there had been no improvement whatsoever in his hearing – there was no chance it would come back now. And so, Bobby had been shipped back to dry land for a life on Civvy Street.

  Bobby sat up straight in his seat. Opportune had played an important part in Operation Torch, patrolling the Mediterranean and supporting the famous British naval formation, Force H. They had effectively blown the enemy out of the war and cleared the Arctic and the Atlantic for the impending invasion of Europe.

  Which was why Bobby felt so angry. He felt as though he had been deprived. As though he had been put on the sidelines just as his team was about to clinch victory. He wanted to be there. He didn’t care that it would be dangerous. When they had gone to war, he had accepted he might lose his life; he would have given that life if it meant Hitler and his madmen were snuffed out and their ideology wiped off the face of the planet.

  Bobby put his elbow against the window and looked out. It was dark. All he could see was his own angry reflection, looking at a future he’d been denied.

  When Gloria opened her front door, she took a step back on seeing Dorothy. She had seen her workmate dolled up to the nines before, but this evening she looked particularly stunning. Her long, dark brown hair, which was normally piled up and stuffed into a faded headscarf, had been washed and curled away from her face into victory rolls. She had on a stunning red dress that Gloria hadn’t seen before, with a rather low-cut neckline and a nipped-in waist, which accentuated her womanly, hourglass figure.

  ‘Dear me,’ Gloria gawped, ‘I think yer’ve surpassed yerself tonight, Dor.’

  Dorothy laughed, put her hands on her hips and struck a pose as though she was just about to walk down the red carpet but had stopped to allow for the flash of the photographers’ cameras.

  ‘It is Friday night, Glor! A girl’s gotta make an effort,’ Dorothy said, sashaying into the flat.

  Gloria knew Dorothy was going to the Ritz after she had helped her write her letter to Bobby and Gordon.

  ‘Does Toby know you go out looking like this?’ Gloria asked, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Of course,’ Dorothy said, putting her handbag and gas mask by the side of the door. ‘I spoke to him just before I came out and described in great detail exactly what I was wearing.’ On seeing Hope, she pulled a pantomime happy face and put her arms out. Hope immediately abandoned her dolls and stretched her arms up towards her glamorous godmother.

  ‘How’s my favourite little girl?’ she said, heaving her god-daughter up onto her hip. ‘Getting bigger by the day.’

  Hope giggled and nodded that she was.

  ‘Oh my goodness, I wonder what I’ve got in my handbag.’ Dorothy pulled a puzzled expression.

  ‘Sweeties!’ Hope squealed.

  ‘Of course, how could I forget,’ Dorothy said in mock earnestness. ‘I wonde
r where they are?’

  ‘Handbag!’ Hope shouted.

  ‘Well, you better go and see if they’re there,’ Dorothy said, putting her back down and looking to the doorway.

  Gloria watched as her daughter hurried over to Dorothy’s black suede clutch purse, sat down next to it and carefully undid the gold clasp. Peering into the bag, she carefully put her little hand in and retrieved a white paper bag full of her favourite boiled candies and twists of toffees.

  ‘Let me get the tea tray,’ Gloria said. ‘I’ve put everything we need out on the table.’

  Dorothy looked over to the small dining table and saw that there were three pens and a few sheets of paper. She put her hand out to Hope. ‘Shall we write to your big brother, then?’ Hope held her bag of sweets to her chest, took her godmother’s hand and walked over to the table.

  Gloria headed for the kitchen. ‘Did Quentin turn up all right?’ she shouted through as Dorothy helped Hope onto the chair. She wasn’t quite tall enough to do it herself, especially as one hand was gripping her weekly treasure as though her life depended on it.

  ‘Oh, yes, bang on time. This is Quentin we’re talking about,’ Dorothy said, rolling her eyes as Gloria came back through to the main living area.

  ‘Where’s he taking her this evening?’ Gloria asked, putting the tea tray down and sitting at the table.

  ‘Meng’s,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘Nice,’ said Gloria. Meng’s, a café by day and a restaurant by night, was known for its fine French cuisine.

  ‘And I’m presuming you and Marie-Anne are hitting the Ritz after you’ve finished here?’

  ‘Of course – Marie-Anne and a couple of her friends from school.’

  ‘Ah,’ Gloria said, pouring out their tea. Now she knew why Dorothy was so done up; she always had to be the most stunning one in the group whenever she went out.

  ‘So,’ Dorothy looked at Hope, ‘are we ready?’

  Hope had a bulge coming out of one of her cheeks. She nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘What do we do when we’re given such a big bag of sweeties?’ Gloria looked at her daughter.

  ‘Shhaare,’ Hope said, a little spittle dribbling from the side of her mouth. She picked up the bag of sweets and offered it to Dorothy, who shook her head. ‘No, thank you. It’ll spoil my lipstick.’ Hope smiled her gratitude. She held the bag towards her mammy, who took one and popped it into her mouth. Dorothy knew Gloria only took a sweet out of principle. She wanted her daughter, who was growing up an only child, to learn good manners.

  ‘Right,’ Dorothy picked up the pen and paper, ‘I think we should begin this letter by telling brothers Bobby and Gordon all about their sweet little sister.’ Hope giggled and took a pen and a piece of paper and started scribbling.

  Dorothy looked at Gloria, who had a cup of tea in both hands and a glum expression on her face.

  Just then the front door opened and Jack walked in.

  ‘Daddy!’ Hope swivelled around off her chair and ran to Jack, who picked her up and held her in the air.

  As they drove along the Seaburn seafront and on to Roker, Bobby was hit by a flood of memories: the excitement of travelling by bus and then by tram to the beach with his mam and Gordon, making castles and moats, swimming in the sea, eating gritty home-made sandwiches. Their dad, thankfully, was never there. If he had been, Bobby would not be conjuring up those memories, but burying them. Vinnie had never been a family man; ‘the bairns’ were the woman’s domain. He was the man. He worked and brought home a wage, kept food in their bellies and a roof over their heads. Only, as they got older, he hadn’t even done that – most of his wages had been poured down his neck and pissed up against the wall of their local.

  At least, Bobby thought as through the darkness he caught the slight shimmer of rippling waves in the distance, his father was on one of His Majesty’s frigates somewhere in the North Atlantic. There’d be just him and his mam. And better still, he would not be returning to the home he’d been brought up in. His mam had written to him and Gordon, telling them she’d moved to a flat on Borough Road that was small, but cosy – and had two bedrooms. He knew she wouldn’t mind him staying with her – rather, she’d insist. It would not be for long, though. Once he found a job, he’d find his own place.

  Seeing the arched outline of the Wearmouth Bridge, he sat up. It felt strange returning to Sunderland without Gordon by his side. It had been hard saying goodbye to him at the docks in Reykjavik. Much harder than he’d anticipated. He was going to miss his brother. This was the first time they’d been apart for years. Gordon had argued that Bobby should write and tell their mam that he’d been medically discharged and was coming home, but Bobby had insisted he wouldn’t and had made Gordon promise not to write to their mam behind his back and warn her of his return. He hoped Gordon had kept that promise – that he’d understood just how important it was for him to return to Sunderland with as little fanfare as possible.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Jack said as he put Hope down, then shrugged off his coat and hung it up on the hook by the door. ‘I’ve been told this letter has to be off in the post tomorrow – by hook or by crook.’ He smiled as he walked over to Gloria and gave her a kiss.

  ‘Work all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Jack said. ‘All good at Thompson’s?’

  ‘Punishing, unrelenting, gruelling, monotonous,’ Dorothy answered for Gloria. ‘Made worse by Rosie the slave-driver.’

  Jack laughed as he picked up Hope and popped her back on her chair. Gloria had mentioned Rosie’s obsession with the LCT they were working on – not just the speed of the build but also the quality. He knew it paralleled her obsession with getting Peter back from France.

  ‘So,’ Jack looked at Dorothy and smiled, ‘I think yer’ve got yer work cut out, if yer gannin out tonight, which I’m guessing yer are. Can’t see yer getting so togged up just to come here.’ Jack walked into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t know Toby was up?’

  ‘He’s not,’ Gloria said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Dorothy is going out with Marie-Anne and her mates. Although Dorothy has made sure that Toby is well aware of what he is missing out on.’

  ‘Poor lad,’ Jack laughed, ruffling Hope’s thick black bobbed hair as she unwrapped a toffee and pushed it into her mouth.

  ‘Got to keep them on their toes,’ Dorothy said. ‘I don’t want him thinking I’m sat at home mooning about, waiting for him on a Friday night.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ Gloria looked at Jack with a mix of love and laughter in her eyes. She still felt her heart lift with joy every time he came in from work. She was sure it always would.

  Jack leant over the table and put his calloused hand on the side of the teapot. ‘I’ll make us a fresh brew.’ He gently touched Gloria’s hand before heading off to the kitchen.

  ‘OK,’ Dorothy said. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

  Hope shuffled off her chair and over to Dorothy, who picked her up and put her on her knee.

  ‘This is going to be a joint effort,’ Dorothy said, kissing the top of Hope’s head and smiling across at Gloria.

  Bobby jumped off the tram at Mackie’s Corner at the top of Fawcett Street as he needed to stretch his legs and wanted to reacquaint himself with his hometown. The moon was large, affording a modicum of light that allowed him to make out his surroundings despite the blackout. He hadn’t been back home since before the start of the war, yet it felt as though it was just yesterday. He knew that the place he’d grown up in had become one of the most heavily bombed towns in the country due to its industry, and that with housing sitting alongside shipyards, factories and collieries, missed targets meant that homes had been hit instead. He also knew that after each raid the town had licked its wounds and gone about its business again, making ships, mining coal and building engines. Walking down the street that ran through the main shopping area, he passed the grandiose town hall with its towering clock. Looking across at the blacked-out windows of Meng’s restaurant, he smiled. He a
nd Gordon had pressed their faces up against the floor-to-ceiling windows many a time to look at the wonderful, mouth-watering arrays of pastries and cakes on display.

  He slowed down as he passed the cordoned-off bomb site where Binns, the town’s most exclusive department store, had once been. His mam had written and told them about each bombing that had hammered the town, but seeing the shadowy outline of a huge mound of bricks and rubble where once the grand three-storey store had stood was still shocking.

  Turning left at the bottom of the street, he looked across the road and was glad to see the darkened outline of the town’s magnificent museum, which was thankfully still in one piece.

  He quickened his pace as he walked along Borough Road towards the start of the east end. He suddenly felt a rush of boyish excitement at seeing his mam. She wrote regularly, but it had still been almost four years since he’d seen her – been able to give her a hug. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when he knocked on her door and she saw it was him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Surprise!’ Bobby dumped his coat and duffel bag by his feet on the mat at the entrance to the basement flat and put his arms out.

  Gloria stood stock-still, her hand holding the front door open, looking at her eldest son. She was in complete shock.

  ‘Mam, it’s me! Bobby. Have you forgotten what your own son looks like?’ He laughed, scooping her up in his arms and giving her a big bear hug, almost lifting her off the ground.

  ‘Bobby … I can’t believe it.’ Gloria’s voice was muffled against her son’s navy blue sailor’s uniform; her slippered feet just touching the floor.

  Bobby put his dumbfounded mother down and then rested his hands on her shoulders and looked at her. ‘You look well, Mam. Very well.’ His smile was wide, and his brown eyes twinkled. This was the happiest he had felt since leaving his ship.

  Gloria reached up to touch her son’s cheek and promptly burst out crying.