by Nancy Revell
The middle-aged receptionist looked at Polly in her grubby overalls, her long brown hair clinging to her red, sweaty face, and she knew there was no way she could tell her to come back during visiting hours. Sometimes exceptions had to be made.
‘He’s been looked after by Dr Parker,’ Polly said, fishing around in her top pocket for her engagement ring. Finding it, she put it on.
‘Ah,’ the receptionist looked up, ‘if it’s Dr Parker it’ll be the post-operative ward.’ She stood up and pointed towards the corridor on her right.
‘Just follow your nose until you get to the end and then take a left. Keep going for about a hundred yards and you’ll be there. It’ll be signposted.’
‘Thank you … Thank you,’ Polly shouted out as she hurried down the corridor and out of sight.
Polly’s heart was beating like a drum as she rushed down the windowless corridor. She slowed down as she passed a couple of nurses and two doctors, who couldn’t help but stare at the overall-clad woman hurrying past them.
Finally, Polly drew to a halt when she reached her destination, but only for a second. Pushing open the swing doors and walking straight onto the ward, her eyes scanned the dozen or so beds.
‘Excuse me, miss?’
Polly looked round to see the stern face of the ward matron.
‘Sorry,’ Polly said, ‘I’ve come to see Tommy Watts. I’m his fiancée.’
Polly looked to her right and that’s when she saw him.
As though in a dream, she walked to his bed. Tears had started to fall unchecked down her face.
When she reached him she realised he was asleep.
She stared at the man she loved, the man she thought she had lost for ever, and she simply looked at him, savouring the moment.
It was real.
Tommy was alive.
Sensing movement behind her, Polly looked round to see Mrs Rosendale approaching with a chair. She put it down gently next to the bed; her finger went to her lips to show Polly that she must be quiet.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Polly whispered to the matron, who nodded her reply.
Polly sat down, and gently took Tommy’s hand in her own and kissed it.
For half an hour she sat there, her eyes not once leaving Tommy’s face.
And then she leant over and kissed him gently on the lips.
‘I love you, Tommy Watts,’ she whispered into his ear.
As she did so, she saw his eyes flutter open.
‘Is that my Pol?’ His words were barely audible.
‘It is,’ Polly said, choking back tears and squeezing his hand.
Tommy put his free hand on top of Polly’s. As he did so his fingers felt the ruby engagement ring.
‘It is – it’s my Pol,’ he said, a smile stretched across his face as he managed to keep his eyes open for a few seconds.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ he mumbled.
‘I didn’t think I was going to see you again either,’ Polly said.
Tommy was fighting to keep awake.
‘Polly, do you still want to be my wife?’
Polly smiled, leant over and kissed him again.
‘Of course I do,’ she whispered in his ear.
For a moment she rested her face against his.
This is not a dream, she told herself.
This is real.
‘Well,’ Tommy said, his sparkling hazel eyes fluttered open, allowing him to look at the woman he loved, ‘I think we should set a date. Soon. Very soon. I think we’ve waited long enough.’
‘I do … I do too, Tommy,’ Polly said, kissing him again, and smiling through her tears.
Epilogue
The late cross-country service from York finally pulled into Sunderland station just after 11 p.m.
The air raid that evening had caused delays on all the trains passing through the town, but thankfully this was the last one. The stationmaster could go home as soon as this batch of passengers had disembarked and gone on their way.
Watching the dozens of tired travellers haul luggage and sleepy children onto the platform, the old man looked on as they all made their way in dribs and drabs up two flights of stairs, through the barriers, and out into the cold but clear October night.
One of those passengers, who didn’t look at all tired, was a fourteen-year-old girl.
She was dressed in a school uniform that the stationmaster didn’t recognise. It certainly wasn’t from these parts. She was struggling with a large suitcase that was bursting at the seams and looked as though it weighed the same as, if not more than, the young girl who was carrying it.
Seeing that she was alone – and thinking that he wouldn’t have liked his own bairns to have been travelling alone this late at night – he stopped her as she reached the barrier.
‘Can I just check your ticket, pet?’
The young girl dumped the suitcase down and scrabbled around in her bag for a few moments before producing her ticket.
‘Ah, Harrogate,’ the stationmaster said, peering over his half-moon spectacles. ‘You visiting relatives?’
The bright-eyed young girl shot him a look and shook her head fiercely.
‘No, I live here,’ she said, taking her ticket back off the old man.
‘This is my home.’
Dear Reader,
The background image used on the cover of Courage of the Shipyard Girls is an original photograph taken the day after the bombing of Tatham Street on 16 October 1942. I can only imagine the kind of courage needed on that awful evening and during the ensuing days, weeks and years as those affected dealt with the loss of their homes and their loved ones.
In total, fourteen people were killed – tragically seven of those were children. I believe the bravery of those who lived through this air raid, as well as other bombings throughout the length and breadth of the country, is truly inspirational.
Whatever fears or hardships, tragedies or losses you, dear reader, may have to deal with, now or at any time in the future, I sincerely hope that you too are able to find the courage to simply carry on.
Until next time.
With love,
HISTORICAL NOTES
To mark the 80th Charter Year of Soroptimist International of Sunderland, its members have commissioned and provided funding for a piece of public artwork which pays tribute to the hundreds of courageous, hardworking and inspirational women who worked in the Sunderland shipyards in World War One and World War Two.
The commemoration came about thanks to Suzanne Brown of the Sunderland Soroptimists, who read the first instalment of The Shipyard Girls and, like myself, was both enthralled by the real-life women who stepped into their men’s steel toe-capped boots and got to work repairing and building ships, but also outraged that they had more or less been forgotten.
During World War Two, seven hundred women worked in the Sunderland shipyards – then the ‘Biggest Shipbuilding Town in the World’ – women, who, at the drop of a hat, swapped their pinnies for overalls and signed up to become welders, riveters, platers, crane drivers and labourers. Work previously only deemed suitable for men.
These women were under no illusion about the kind of back-breaking work they were letting themselves in for. They often did twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, in all kinds of weather. They worked in harsh and hazardous conditions, with scant regard for health and safety – only then to return home to cook, clean and care for their families.
They also had to contend with constant air strikes by Hitler’s Luftwaffe, as the world-famous shipyards, (which produced a quarter of Britain’s merchant shipping at the time), were a strategic target for German bombers. Without the shipyards, there would have been no cargo vessels for the essential transportation of vital food, fuel and troops. The country, quite simply, would have been forced to surrender.
These women chose to undertake such difficult and often perilous jobs in the yards, not only because they needed to work, but also because they wanted to be
a part of the war effort.
And all the while they were living with the fear that the men they loved might not make it home from the frontline.
It is thanks to Suzanne and the Sunderland Soroptimists that these remarkable women who played such an important role in a crucial period of our history will never be forgotten. The contemporary artwork will overlook the River Wear where the women worked and it will stand as a lasting legacy to the real Shipyard Girls, becoming part of the city’s heritage for years to come
I personally hope other towns and cities in the UK, who also had women working in the shipyards during World War One and World War Two, will also follow suit.
Turn the page for a sneak
peek into my new novel
Christmas with the
Shipyard Girls
PROLOGUE
Gibraltar, 21 June 1942
Tommy looked up at the darkening sky. Its palette of yellow and orange mixed with an array of blues reminded him of the huge oil paintings that Arthur had taken him to see as a child in the town’s museum. His grandda had told him that a person could learn a lot about the world by simply looking at these depictions of days gone by and far-off lands, but all Tommy had wanted to do was run out of the musty-smelling exhibition room and look up at the real skies and stare out at the real sea. ‘Here you are,’ a soft woman’s voice drew his eyes away from the oil-painted sky. ‘Let’s get this around you.’
Tommy looked at the pretty face of the nurse as she bent over his stretcher and tucked a blanket tightly around his body. She nearly lost her balance a few times as the lifeboat bobbed about in the choppy waters. ‘Help’s on its way,’ she reassured. Tommy felt her palm on his forehead.
Her hands were icy cold but cooling against his own hot brow.
‘You’re cold,’ Tommy mumbled.
The nurse smiled but didn’t say anything. Tommy looked at her familiar white pinafore emblazoned with the distinctive emblem of the Red Cross and he suddenly realised that he didn’t know her name. Hers was the only face he had seen during his spells of consciousness. He’d heard the living and the dying since he’d been hauled on board the hospital ship, but hers was the only face he’d seen, or at least remembered.
Turning his head to the side Tommy looked out at the Atlantic Ocean that was now covered in a layer of black oil from the ship’s fractured fuel tank. He could just make out the ship itself. It’s white painted flank slowly disappearing beneath the surface.
‘Here! Over here!’
Tommy felt the lifeboat sway as two dark figures got to their feet and started shouting and waving their hands. He craned his neck.
‘See, I told you.’ The nurse put her cold hand on his forehead once again, before easing a thermometer into his mouth. ‘They’ve come to get us.’ Tommy heard the Yorkshire Dales in her accent.
There was lots of movement, shouts and cries of jubilation as a ship’s grey bow ploughed towards them, a sense of euphoria spreading through the packed lifeboat as salvation approached.
Tommy watched as the nurse took the thermometer out of his mouth and looked at it. Her face looked sombre. ‘And not a moment too soon,’ she muttered, grabbing the side of the boat, unsteadied by the swell created by the approach of their rescuers.
‘Come on,’ she put her arm around Tommy’s shoulders and helped him to sit up. ‘I want you to be one of the first off.’
Tommy’s body was shaking and his teeth were chattering but he didn’t feel at all cold.
‘Listen!’ A man’s voice next to him suddenly shouted.
The excitement died down.
And that’s when they all heard it.
The ominous drone above them.
Looking up, they saw a lone bomber thudding its way across the sky. Its target obvious. There were no other ships within sight – other than the one coming to their rescue.
‘Please, God, no!’
Tommy saw panic and alarm on the young nurse’s face as she made the sign of the cross.
Turning his vision back to the sky’s oil-painted canvas he could just make out the bomber’s metal underbelly releasing its innards and the outline of three giant-sized bullets as they careered through the air, see-sawing ungainly before smashing into the sea. Three white mountains of frothing angry sea water erupted one after the other, causing Tommy’s world to suddenly turn upside down. Air was replaced by water; the burning heat that had been consuming his body for weeks now, extinguished in an instant.
A familiar quietness followed. It was the sound of silence that Tommy knew well and had lived much of his life with.
An instinctive feeling of relief surged through him; he was where he belonged.
His body had stopped shaking; his arms and legs felt strong and fluid as they stretched out and swam back up to the surface. Breathing in air he looked around.
He saw the upturned lifeboat. Two men had managed to climb on top and were trying to pull someone out of the water. His vision blurred as another angry wave washed over him. Blinking he caught sight of the nurse. She was gasping for air. Tommy could see her arms were trying to keep her afloat, but her clothes, like dead weights, were dragging her under.
Tommy started swimming, punching through the surface of the sea and battering his way to get to her. She disappeared under the water again, but re-emerged, coughing and gulping for air.
He had to get to her.
He powered through the water.
His arms pulling his body forward, his legs kicking furiously. He was nearly there. Just a few more strokes and he’d be able to grab her.
Another wave pushed him back, but only for a second.
Coming up for air, he scanned the surface of the turbulent waters.
He couldn’t see her.
Panic coursed through him.
He swung his head around, frantically treading water, but she was nowhere.
Taking a huge gulp of air Tommy upended his body, diving underneath the waves and back into the quiet watery underworld. Through stinging, blurred eyes he spotted her.
You can’t have her! His whole being screamed as though the sea was his foe.
Swimming, pulling water back with every ounce of energy he possessed, Tommy desperately tried to reach her.
Seeing him, her eyes widened.
Tommy saw the look of desperation as she reached out to him with splayed hands.
No!
He saw her mouth open and knew what she was about to do.
Don’t breathe!
But it was too late.
Her mouth formed an oval shape, her body jerked the once, before a mass of bubbles started streaming around her pretty, young face.
She began gasping, sucking in water instead of air. As she did so, her body began convulsing.
Please God! No!
Tommy strained every muscle as he tried to grab her. Frantically, his arms dug deep into the darkening waters, dragging himself down after her.
But then the writhing stopped. Her body became still. Tommy saw the red cross of her white uniform fluttering like a flag in a gentle breeze.
Still he tried to reach her, but her body was now sinking. Fast. Tommy swam deeper, still snatching at water as he tried to grab her, refusing to give up.
Suddenly the nurse’s head tilted upwards – her brown hair swirling about her face like Medusa – her eyes stony-dead.
It was too late.
And then Tommy’s own world went black.
When Tommy was hauled into the wooden lifeboat, spewing sea water and retching death from his lungs, he looked at his rescuers but did not see their faces.
For many weeks after, whether in a sweat-soaked semi-consciousness or in a deep medicated slumber, the only face he could see was that of the young Red Cross nurse.
As the ship he was on rocked its way across the Atlantic, so did his mind similarly crash back and forth.
Like the swell of a strong current he would often find himself sucked back to memories of his former life, encase
d in his canvas suit and twelve-bolt helmet, immersed in the murky waters of the River Wear.
Occasionally, as though elevated by strong winds and high waves, his mind’s eye would surge upwards, escaping reality, catapulting itself into a future devoid of warmongering and death. It was then he would see a vision of Polly’s smiling face, and he would imagine their life together. He clung to that image, but it was never long before it began to fade and in its place, like an image in a photographer’s developing tray, the grey, lifeless face of the Red Cross nurse would slowly emerge.
The weeks spent crossing the Atlantic passed in a vague, dream-like haze. Tommy heard snatches of conversations, always about either love or war; always in a constant cloud of cigarette smoke.
He heard medics coming and going, soldiers near him either vomiting with sea sickness or crying out in a delirium of agony. Occasionally someone was carried out on a stretcher and did not return.
As the ship crossed the seas, the stench of death seemed to become increasingly more odorous and might well have ended up suffocating them all, had they not reached their homeland when they did.
Then the undulating wash of the Atlantic was replaced by the jarring feel of the army first aid truck on terra firma.
On the second day of October, Tommy was stretchered out of the makeshift ambulance and into a building he guessed by the smell of antiseptic and the blur of white coats was a hospital.
‘Have we a next of kin for this one?’
Tommy heard the polished tones of an educated man as he was wheeled along a narrow windowless corridor.
‘I’m afraid not, Dr Parker. We don’t even have a name yet.’
The front of the trolley buffeted a pair of swing doors open.
‘Over here, please!’ This time it was a woman’s voice. She sounded old and stern.
Tommy managed to open his eyes. He had guessed right.
‘Can you tell us your name?’ Dr Parker was bent over him.