by Nancy Revell
‘Yes, it is,’ Rosie said, turning to her sister.
‘Charlotte, this is Vivian and Maisie, who lodge with Lily and George.’
Charlotte’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened as she stared at the two starlets who looked like they had just stepped off a Hollywood film set.
‘Pleased to meet you, Charlotte.’ Maisie stretched out a gloved hand.
‘And you, too,’ Charlotte said, shaking it.
‘You working tonight?’ Vivian asked Rosie.
‘I’ll probably do a few hours.’
‘Oh, she’s a cherub, isn’t she? And what lovely hair.’ She curled a loose strand of Charlotte’s wayward brown hair around a long, glossy-red fingernail. ‘Could do with a bit of a tidy up, though.’
She looked at Charlotte.
‘I’m known for my skills with the scissors, amongst other things!’ She let out a deep, throaty laugh.
Charlotte finally found her voice. ‘I’m growing it long.’
‘Of course, honeybun, but ya still need to keep it trim.’
‘So,’ Rosie interrupted, ‘you two got dates tonight?’
‘Yes,’ Maisie said, gently taking Vivian’s arm. ‘We’re just checking in on our Kate, and then we’re off to the Grand.’
‘Well,’ Rosie said, turning on her torch, ‘have a good night.’
‘Rosie?’
‘Yes?’
They were walking up Holmeside. Away from the boutique, heading for home.
‘Doesn’t Bel have a sister called Maisie?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s obviously not her, is it?’
‘What do you mean that it’s obviously not her?’
‘Well, obviously, because Bel is white, and Maisie is coloured.’
‘Not if Bel and Maisie had different fathers.’
‘Really?’ Charlotte was intrigued. ‘So Pearl was married to a black man?’
‘I don’t know about married, but from what I gather, she was in a relationship with a stoker from the West Indies.’
‘Really?’ The intrigue in Charlotte’s voice was clear. ‘But Maisie doesn’t sound as though she’s from here? She speaks like a southerner.’
‘That’s because she is.’ Rosie checked the road and grabbed Charlotte’s arm as they crossed over and began walking up Vine Place. ‘Pearl had Maisie adopted. Down south.’
‘Really?’
They walked on for a few moments.
Rosie could almost hear her sister’s brain whirring at full speed.
‘So, how come she’s up here now?’
Rosie stepped up her pace.
‘From what I gathered,’ she said, ‘Maisie wanted to find her birth mother, which obviously she did.’
Rosie deliberately left out the drama of Maisie turning up at Bel and Joe’s wedding reception and declaring her parentage to all and sundry. A declaration that had sent Pearl off on a bender, culminating in her trying to end it all by taking a swim in the middle of the night down Hendon beach.
‘What? And she decided to stay up here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So she got lodgings at Lily’s? With Kate and the American woman, Vivian?’
‘That’s right.’ Rosie decided not to enlighten Charlotte about Vivian’s Liverpudlian roots.
‘And what does Maisie do? For a living?’ Charlotte asked.
God, why did Charlotte have to be so damned inquisitive?
‘Honestly, Charlie. Why are you so obsessed with what people do for a living?’
Charlotte thought about it for a moment.
‘I suppose I’m just curious.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she laughed. ‘I know, I know. Curiosity … cats …’
They walked on. Charlotte hurrying to keep up the pace.
‘I think,’ Charlotte said, a little breathlessly, ‘I’m just wondering about what I might want to do. You know, when I get older.’
‘I think you’ve got plenty of time for that,’ Rosie said. ‘Anyway, I thought you wanted to go to university? Put that intelligent and overactive brain of yours to use?’
Charlotte smiled. She loved it when her sister gave her a compliment. Even if it was a backhanded one. And even if it was because Rosie was avoiding her question.
Why, though, did her sister seem so reticent to talk about Lily and anyone associated with her?
Chapter Thirty-Three
The following day
Monday 23 November
‘Pol, I need to talk to you about something.’
Tommy saw the instant look of worry.
‘It’s nothing bad.’ He paused. ‘Well, it is, and it isn’t.’
The look of worry on Polly’s face deepened.
‘Bloody hell, I’m not saying this right!’
Tommy sat up straight on the sofa and pushed his hand through his hair in frustration. They’d been out for a walk along the river and had just returned to the Major’s flat.
‘What I mean is that it’s nothing really bad.’ He paused again. ‘Just might not be very pleasant. For you anyway.’
‘What is it, Tommy?’ Polly took hold of her fiancé’s hand, forcing him to sit back. She let out a nervous laugh. ‘Explain. You’re talking in riddles.’
‘It’s something Arthur thinks I should tell you. Says it’s not good to keep things from each other. “Be honest ’n open from the start,” he keeps saying. “Begin as you mean to go on.”’
‘Yes … And?’ Polly was searching Tommy’s face, trying to read him.
Tommy took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ Polly tried to help.
Tommy looked at her and nodded.
‘Yes. The beginning.’
And so Polly listened as Tommy relayed everything that had happened that awful day on the Atlantic.
When he finished, he looked at Polly.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
‘Ever since, I’ve had these terrible nightmares. I see her die every night in my sleep. Every night I try and save her. Every night I fail.
‘Arthur knows about them. Matron told him. He asked me about them. The Major knows … Obviously … I’m probably keeping the poor bloke awake at night.’
He looked at Polly.
‘He claims he doesn’t sleep anyway. Says that night terrors are normal – a “by-product” of war. Or so he says …’ His voice trailed off.
‘I’m guessing that’s why you didn’t want to move into Tatham Street?’
Tommy nodded.
Polly looked at the man she loved, at the dark circles under his eyes, and now knew their cause.
‘Nothing can change the way I feel about you, Tommy. You must know that?’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
They held each other.
After a little while, Tommy put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper on which was scrawled a name and address. He gave it to Polly.
‘Her parents?’
Tommy nodded.
‘You want to go and see them?’
‘I do.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Four days later
Thursday 26 November
Tommy felt a slight shiver of nerves. He had no idea whether his visit to this little two-up two-down terraced house in the village of Ruswarp, just a mile outside of Whitby in North Yorkshire, would be received well. He also didn’t know whether the two-and-a-half-hour journey there would end with the slamming of a door in his face. Grief affected people in different ways. He knew that from his own personal experience. Losing his mother so suddenly and so unexpectedly when he was a boy had brought him anger rather than sadness. But that had been a different situation.
Tommy adjusted his uniform. He straightened the lapels and brushed the stiff shoulders with the palm of his hand. Not that it needed it. He looked impeccable. His Royal Navy petty officer’s jacket a
nd trousers had been cleaned and pressed by Agnes. She had taken great pride in doing so. Had told him what he was doing was both brave and admirable, but not to worry if he was not welcomed with open arms. Agnes had taken hold of his hands and held them in a firm grip. She had said that she was proud of her future son-in-law. Just as Arthur and Polly and all those he knew were proud of him.
Tommy had been taken aback by Agnes’s words and for the first time since he was small, he’d felt what it must be like to have a mother.
Tommy raised his hand and knocked on the door, which looked as though it had recently been painted black.
He thought of Polly, whom he had left sightseeing in the seaside resort of Whitby. She had understood his wanting her company, as well as his need to see Catherine’s parents on his own.
Taking a deep breath, Tommy could feel the pull of his starched navy-blue uniform against his chest. He had put on weight these past few weeks. His appetite had come back tenfold since leaving hospital. Thanks to Agnes’s cooking, his growing hunger had been more than satiated. A part of him felt guilty for feeling so well.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the diminutive woman who answered the door. She was dressed from head to toe in black.
Tommy immediately took off his cap and pressed it against his chest.
‘Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Mrs Reid?’
‘Yes, you are, young man.’ The woman’s voice sounded familiar. It took Tommy a second to realise why. Like mother like daughter.
‘My name is Tommy Watts. Petty Officer Tommy Watts. I wondered if Mr Reid was also at home?’
The woman’s dark brown hair was scraped away from her face into a bun. Her face was pale and there were the beginnings of wrinkles around her eyes. She had the same kind, dark brown eyes that visited him every night.
‘Yes, he’s out back. In the garden tending vegetables.’ Her Yorkshire accent was distinct. Her voice soft, almost gentle.
‘Do you think it would be possible to speak with yer both?’
Mrs Reid’s eyes dropped to look at Tommy’s uniform and back up to his face. A face that looked nervous and sad.
‘Is it about Catherine?’ she asked. Tommy nodded. She opened the door and Tommy stepped over the threshold.
‘Please, go ’n sit in the front reception room.’
She shut the front door and showed Tommy into the lounge.
‘I’ll go get Mr Reid.’
Tommy stood in the middle of the living room and looked out of the front window. It had not been covered in anti-blast tape. He heard the back door open, then close and then the sound of splashing water. His eyes strayed to the mantelpiece and he caught his breath. He knew that face so well. Had lived with it for the past five months. The night-time visitations made it feel much longer.
‘Aye, she were a bonny lass.’
Tommy turned to see Mr Reid enter the room. The mud patches on the knees of his trousers showed he had come straight in from the garden. His clean, outstretched hand showed it had been him at the sink.
‘Would you like a cup o’ tea, lad?’ Mr Reid asked. His handshake was firm. ‘The wife says you’ve come from the north-east? She’s good with placing dialects. You must have had a long journey. A few hours at least.’
‘Thank you,’ Tommy said. ‘But I don’t want to put either of yer to any bother.’
‘Milk ’n sugar?’
Tommy nodded.
Mr Reid walked out to the hallway.
‘Milk ’n sugar for the lad, pet.’
‘Sit down,’ Mr Reid said. ‘I need to rest my legs even if you don’t.’
Mr Reid asked Tommy where in the north-east he hailed from, and on hearing he was from Sunderland, County Durham, the conversation naturally led to chat about the collieries and the shipyards and Tommy told him that he had been employed as a dock diver by the Wear Commission before he’d signed up.
Mrs Reid came into the room with two china teacups, handed them to her husband and their visitor and returned with her own.
Tommy took a sup of the strong Yorkshire brew before putting his cup and saucer down on the coffee table.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Tommy said. ‘On yer life, and also on yer grief.’
Mr Reid took his wife’s hand and held it tight.
‘And if at any point yer want me to stop talking, just say, and I will.’
They both nodded.
‘I wanted to come here today to tell yer about yer daughter, Catherine.’ As he started to speak Tommy suddenly felt overcome by emotion. He had to blink back the tears. Be strong! This is their pain. Not yours.
‘Catherine looked after me when I was on the hospital ship. I was very ill ’n she nursed me. Looked after me. She was kind ’n gentle.’
Tommy paused.
Swallowed hard.
‘I was in ’n out of consciousness, but it was her face that I saw, her voice that I heard telling me that I was going to be all right. That I was safe. That I was now in good hands … And I was.’
Tommy looked at the couple opposite him. Their eyes had filled with tears. Their attention was unfaltering. They continued holding hands.
‘When the ship took a hit, it was Catherine who made sure I got on a lifeboat. It was yer daughter who put other lives before her own. She never once showed fear. She was calm, always speaking to me, telling me that help was coming. She must have been fearful, but not once did it show.’
Tommy noticed Mr Reid glance at the photo on the mantelpiece.
‘She was truly courageous in every sense of the word,’ Tommy said simply. ‘When the lifeboat capsized, we all went into the water.’ Tommy paused, looking at the couple. Tears were now streaming down both their faces.
‘Carry on, lad.’ The strength in Mr Reid’s voice belied the devastation showing on his weather-beaten face.
‘I’m a diver, as you know, Mr Reid.’ Tommy looked at them both, watching for any signs that they wanted him to stop telling them how their child had died.
Surely there could be no greater torment.
‘I tried to save her,’ Tommy continued. He took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep the pressing sorrow that threatened to engulf him at bay. ‘I would have given my life for hers if I could.’
He stopped.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Reid. So sorry that I couldn’t. That I wasn’t able to save her. I am so sorry that it is me ’n not Catherine who is sat here now.’
Tommy’s vision was now blurred. He blinked hard.
‘I just wanted – needed – to tell yer how heroic yer daughter was. How caring ’n kind ’n loving she was to someone she didn’t even know … And I am certain I won’t have been the only one she saved.’
Another pause.
‘But I might be the only one who is able to come here ’n tell yer about yer daughter.’
Mrs Reid finally gave in to her grief. Her cries were muffled by her husband’s chest as he held her tightly. His own tears continued to fall silently.
‘Thank you,’ Mr Reid said simply. ‘Thank you for coming here and telling us.’
Mrs Reid sat up and pulled a hanky from her sleeve and dried her eyes.
She stood up and walked over to Tommy and took his hand.
‘Catherine will be so glad you took the time to come here and visit us,’ she said, a smile spreading across her face, now wet with tears as she spoke the name of her daughter.
‘All she ever wanted was to be a nurse. Even when she was a little girl, she’d patch up her dollies. When she got older, she’d practise on me and her father.’
Mrs Reid straightened her back and looked at the sepia studio portrait of her only child.
‘We’ve never had a body to bury,’ she said. ‘But I feel you’ve brought her back to us.’
She nodded. Gave Tommy a sad smile and left the room.
Mr Reid got up and walked over to the sideboard. He poured out two good measures of whisky and handed one to Tommy.
He sat back down and rai
sed his glass.
‘To my dear girl, Catherine.’
‘To Catherine,’ Tommy said.
For the next hour the two men chatted. Mr Reid had also been in the Royal Navy and had served in the First War. He told Tommy a little about his time on HMS Neptune, which Tommy knew had been the flagship of the Home Fleet.
As Mr Reid talked, his voice became addled with regret. He poured them both another Scotch and said that he believed it had been his daughter’s love of hearing about his life at sea that had propelled her to volunteer to work for the Red Cross, and in particular to become a nurse on a hospital ship.
They sat quietly for a little while.
Tommy knew to respect the silence.
There was nothing he could say that would offer any kind of comfort that might ease the suffering of a parent who had lost their child.
Their only child.
Mr Reid exhaled a long breath before pulling out a packet of Player’s from his shirt pocket. Offering one to Tommy, who declined with a shake of his head, he pulled the ashtray on the coffee table close, lit up his cigarette and asked Tommy about his work as a mine-clearance diver.
Through billows of smoke he listened as Tommy told him about the Italian frogmen, their limpet mines, and about naval life out in Gibraltar.
When Tommy got up to leave, Mr Reid shook his hand.
‘You take care, lad.’
Tommy nodded.
He walked out into the hallway to see Mrs Reid appearing from the kitchen with a parcel tied with string.
‘Sandwiches. For the journey,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mrs Reid. That’s very kind of yer. Thank you.’
Tommy knew why Catherine had become the person she was.
‘Do you have a sweetheart?’ Mrs Reid asked.
‘Aye, a fiancée. We’re getting married in a few weeks.’ Tommy always felt his heart lift whenever he thought of Polly.
‘Well, you make sure you both bring life into this world,’ Mrs Reid said. Her words took Tommy aback. They were unexpected.
‘You’re a good man,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sure your fiancée is a good woman. If anything were to happen to you, she’ll need a part of you to keep her going. To give her the will to live and remind her of the man she loved.’