by Nancy Revell
So that the world can be one of light and not darkness.
Please, please don’t forsake that because I am not here to enjoy it with you. Whenever you feel lonely, just close your eyes and I’ll be there right by your side. And know I will always be with you. And I will always love you.
Forever yours,
Peter x
Chapter Thirty-Five
After reading the final words of Peter’s letter, Rosie felt the life leave her body. Every ounce of energy drained from every part of her physical being. It felt as though she had suddenly taken a step back and was looking at reality from a distance; as though a protective see-through curtain had dropped between herself and life, and she was viewing everything from afar.
As she felt her legs lose their strength, she sat down on something hard and wooden and then the tears came. Doubled up, she cried from her very core, great heaving sobs. Through a blur of tears, she looked up and saw the women’s concerned faces around her. Hannah disappeared and returned moments later with a glass of water. She saw her hand reach out and felt the cool liquid run down her throat, but it did not seem to quench her thirst. She saw Gloria move and sit down next to her. She looked at her friend’s grave face and realised that she was talking to her. Her mouth was moving and her face expressed such sadness and concern, but all Rosie could hear were muted, mumbled words.
She caught movement to her right and turned her head to see Martha lowering herself down so that she too was sitting next to her, dwarfing her. She felt Martha’s arm go around her shoulders as she gave her a hug. She felt her head slump onto Martha’s chest and then she felt her body shuddering. More tears ran down her face and left the taste of salt on her dry lips.
She saw Polly’s face, which seemed to be a reflection of her own. Tears were running down her cheeks, making white streaks through the dirt on her skin. Dorothy and Angie turned and disappeared. Time seemed to have taken on a different dimension, because it seemed as though they were back in the blink of an eye, with Helen in tow.
Then Dorothy was by her side, helping her up from her seat, her arm hooked into Rosie’s. She was like a rag doll, her body unable to hold itself straight. She had a flash of the night she had been attacked by her uncle Raymond. The women had hauled her to her feet. They had been there then, and they were here now. Back then she had felt the same sense of exhaustion, of being beaten.
Looking up, she noticed Bobby. Where had he come from? She saw him flash a look at Dorothy. Worry mixed with deep sorrow was etched on his face as he reached for her other arm and helped her to her feet. She was standing, although her legs still felt as though they had not the strength to support her weight. She felt herself move, a little lopsidedly, with most of her weight being taken by Bobby. She looked up and realised for the first time how tall he was. She smelled the dirt and sweat of the shipyard on him. Noticed his tattoo of a dagger going through a rose. The image hit her. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She felt more tears streaming down her face. More salt on her lips. A rose. A symbol of love being destroyed.
She felt her boots clomp on the concrete as Dorothy and Bobby supported her across the yard. She felt the eyes of the workers on her – a squad of platers and their apprentices, a squad of women red-leaders whose overalls were speckled red, making her think of spilt blood. Reaching the timekeeper’s cabin, she looked up to see Davey, his big, innocent child’s eyes staring down at her, full of confusion and fear. And then Helen seemed to appear out of nowhere, walking towards a green sports car. Her green sports car. She was opening the passenger door. Now there was just Bobby holding her up, helping her into the front passenger seat, then gently shutting the door.
She looked to her right and saw Helen putting the keys into the ignition. Helen was talking to her, but she couldn’t understand what she was saying, her mind unable to process the words. The car pulled away and as she looked out of the passenger window, she saw Bobby and Dorothy standing together, wearing identical overalls, their arms almost touching, both watching forlornly as the car drove off.
When Rosie arrived back home, she was still crying – it was now coming in waves, first small, then tidal and uncontrollable. Helen helped her up the stairs and guided her to the bed, suggesting she should lie down for a little while and that she would go and make them both a cup of tea. Rosie nodded. If Helen had told her to walk out of the house and in front of a car, she would have done so.
She heard a knock on the front door and Helen talking to her neighbour, Mrs Jenkins, in hushed tones. Five minutes later, Mrs Jenkins came into the room with a cup of tea and told her to sit up and drink it. For once her neighbour didn’t chat on incessantly, as she was wont to do, but simply sat on the chair by the bed quietly while Rosie cried and took sips of tea, doing what she was told without question. Mrs Jenkins only left the room when there was another knock on the door and she went to answer it. She heard voices – a man and a woman. It was Lily and George. She heard Lily’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and a quick knock before she bustled in. She walked over, took the teacup and saucer off her and put them on the bedside table. She held Rosie’s face in her heavily bejewelled hands and told her, ‘You will survive this, Rosie.’ Then she told her to get up as they were going to the bordello. George, she explained, was waiting downstairs and had brought the car. Once there, she said, Rosie could rest.
Rosie started to speak, to ask about Charlotte, but Lily beat her to it.
‘I’ll see to Charlotte,’ she said.
When they arrived back at the bordello, Lily took Rosie up to the guest bedroom, got her out of her overalls and into a nightdress and told her to get into bed. During the whole process, Rosie did not once let go of Peter’s letter. Lily asked her if she wanted a brandy, or a sleeping pill, but she shook her head before curling up in a ball, holding Peter’s farewell letter close to her chest.
Going back downstairs, Lily closed up the bordello and drew all the curtains to show there had been a death in the family. Maisie and Vivian, who had heard the news when Helen had come knocking on the door a little earlier, said they would keep checking on Rosie every ten minutes. George and Lily left for the Maison Nouvelle to tell Kate what had happened, after which they went to get Charlotte.
Waiting at the school gates, Lily used the opportunity to tell the group of boys also waiting there that if they ever did anything to hurt or upset her charge they’d spend the rest of their lives regretting it. Running out of the main doors as soon as the bell went and seeing Lily’s face, Charlotte knew something was terribly wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Over the next few days, people came and went. Rosie continued to be hit by waves of grief so deep she thought they would consume her whole being. Part of her wanted them to. She cried and cried. Helen brought Dr Parker to check on her. He left a bottle of sleeping pills with Lily should she feel Rosie needed them. There was no need to explain why he had given the bottle to Lily rather than leave them with Rosie. It was hard to tell her mindset as all she kept saying was that she was fine and just wanted to be on her own.
While Rosie was on leave, Helen put Gloria in charge and the women on ‘pickup’ work, touching up spots that had been missed or weren’t up to scratch; she’d done so knowing their minds would not be on the job and that a lack of concentration might well lead to accidents – none of them needed any more tragedies.
All Rosie’s squad took it in turns to go and visit, as did Georgina, who wondered how so much heartache could befall one person. They didn’t stay long, just enough time to give her a quick update on what was happening at the yard and to tell her what she already knew – that they were there, should she need or want them. The problem was that the only person Rosie needed and wanted was Peter.
Through it all, Rosie barely let go of Peter’s letter. She held it when she fell asleep and cried over it as she read it over and over again in the morning.
The day after Rosie had been brought to the bordello, Charlotte came into h
er room to find the letter had fallen on the floor while Rosie was asleep. Picking it up, she caught a glimpse of her own name and couldn’t stop herself reading it. She stood stock-still as she committed to memory every word Peter had written to her big sister – how Charlotte had to be strong and brave, just like Rosie had been. She reread the lines on how Rosie had sacrificed her life for her own, and with tears stinging her eyes she resolved to show her sister that her sacrifice had been worth it – just as Peter’s had been too.
Thereafter, Charlotte would take Rosie a cup of tea and a sandwich after school and she would sit by her bed and tell her all about what she had learnt. She would stay there until Rosie had eaten her sandwich and drunk her tea. Only then would she leave her in peace.
The magnitude of the aftershock from Peter’s death was far-reaching. Every one of Rosie’s squad and those who knew her and loved her was deeply affected. And the ways they were affected were varied.
When Martha had told her mam and dad the news, they had hugged her tightly. Mrs Perkins had cried for a long while. It was only later that Martha understood for the first time both why they had been so set against her ARP work and their relief that it had more or less come to an end. Martha knew that if anything happened to their only daughter, her parents, like Rosie, would struggle with the effort of living.
Secretly, Polly felt guilty. She hadn’t told the women she’d received a letter from Tommy on the morning they’d heard that Peter had been killed. Tommy had written full of good humour and hope that victory was within their grasp, reassuring her that it was highly improbable that his unit would be involved in any more dangerous operations. Polly had confided her guilt to Bel, who had told her that from her experience, thinking back to when she was told that Teddy had been killed, the grief she felt had gone hand in hand with guilt. Polly and her sister-in-law had both cried. Their tears as much for Teddy as they were for Peter.
Like all the women, Hannah had saved her tears for when she was at home on her own. Peter, in her eyes, was a true hero. He had sacrificed his life and his love to try to stop the spread of malevolence unleashed by Hitler – a small man with a mammoth capacity for hate. Every night she prayed – every prayer devoted to Peter – asking God for a miracle, arguing that they needed to see that good could triumph and that there was light in a world that had become cloaked in darkness.
It was Dorothy out of all the women, though, who seemed the most affected by Peter’s death.
‘She keeps saying she feels like she’s “the angel of death”,’ Angie confided to her workmates. ‘I’ve never seen her so down. She didn’t even get excited when Toby called the other night.’
‘Dorothy’s life is about happy endings,’ Gloria said. ‘Look at all her favourite films ’n the books she reads – they all have a happy ever after.’
She paused.
‘And Rosie is not going to get her happy ending, is she?’
Helen, meanwhile, kept thinking about John. They had gone for a cup of tea after he had checked Rosie over and she had told him, ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose someone like that.’ She had looked at John and caught a flash of how it might feel should he die. It was an insight that had stayed with her and played on her mind. She couldn’t help thinking that if John was suddenly taken from her, she would be filled with huge regret. She thought about her own tragedies in life – the most dreadful one, of course, being the death of her unborn child. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she would not like to add the burden of regret to her own losses and adversities. She was edging to a decision – heading towards a course of action she knew she had to take. It was just a matter of when.
John had been hit by an equally strong revelation after tending to Rosie. Seeing her lying on the bed at Lily’s, he knew he was looking at a woman who had loved truly and deeply and with all of her heart. Some might argue that the effect on Rosie of losing Peter was an argument for a person not giving their whole heart to another. The repercussions should that love be taken away – ripped from you unexpectedly or unjustly or by sheer misfortune – were too great. He wondered if Rosie would ever be able to recover. It was almost too unbearable to witness. And during the days that followed, he thought about the love that Rosie felt for Peter and which he was sure Peter had felt for Rosie too, and it made him wonder about his love for Claire – and the love he’d felt for Helen. Still felt for Helen.
Dr Eris had wanted to scream in frustration when John told her that Helen, a damsel in distress, had gone to him following Peter’s death, asking him to check that Rosie was all right. The woman had only to snap her fingers and he’d come running. If anything, Helen should have been asking for her help. She was the psychologist, after all. Mental well-being was her domain. What did John know? He was a bloody surgeon. Besides which, there were plenty of other women the length and breadth of the country who were having to deal with similar news. And Rosie doubted very much there were many – if any – of those newly-made widows who were being checked over by a doctor. They simply had to get over it and get on with life. She would bet her bottom dollar that Helen had used Rosie’s bad news as an excuse to see even more of John than she was already.
Walking towards the reception area, Dr Eris saw that Genevieve was waiting by the front door. Her young stand-in was sitting behind the reception desk, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
‘Ah, Genevieve,’ Dr Eris called out. ‘You look lovely.’
Genevieve smiled. She had put on her best dress. It wasn’t often she went out of an evening. Not at her age – and on her wage. She wasn’t stupid, though, and knew there would be a reason Dr Eris had suggested they go out for a drink and something to eat. It wasn’t the first time she’d been wined and dined in exchange for information. She was intrigued, though, to know what Dr Eris wanted to find out. Whatever it was, she was sure she’d have the answers. She’d been at the asylum for a long, long time. Decades. And she had been blessed with a memory like an elephant.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Monday 12 June
On the fourth day after Rosie learnt of Peter’s death, she got out of bed and went downstairs to have a cup of tea in the kitchen with Lily and Charlotte. Her little sister had the morning paper spread out on the kitchen table and she was giving Lily a resumé of the news in between mouthfuls of Marmite on toast. Neither of them made a fuss when they saw her, but simply poured her a cup of tea.
Rosie listened as her little sister read out the morning paper’s headlines. Charlotte quickly skimmed through the main stories, which were all about France and the ongoing battles, now mainly happening inland, before finding an article that was not connected in any way to Peter.
‘It says here,’ she said, taking a slurp of tea, ‘that German women prisoners are expected to land at a “British invasion port” today.’ She read on. ‘It doesn’t say which port.’ She looked up, her eyes going from Lily to Rosie. ‘It’s strange, but you don’t expect women to be prisoners, do you?’ She knew, of course, there were plenty in Nazi camps abroad. ‘Not over here, anyway.’
Lily murmured her agreement and Rosie looked at her sister with glazed eyes that had a faraway look. She didn’t appear to have heard what Charlotte had said.
‘And we’re being told to keep taking our gas masks everywhere we go,’ Charlotte groaned. ‘And we’re not to let the children play football with them,’ she paraphrased the story. ‘The Germans, it says, have promised not to use gas, but they might go “Mad dog with defeat and resort to gas warfare”.’
Lily tutted. ‘Might go mad dog – they’ve been going mad dog since the war began.’
‘I’m going back to work today,’ Rosie told them both when Charlotte started packing her satchel ready for school.
‘You sure you’ll be all right, ma chère?’ Lily asked.
‘Yes. It’s time,’ she said, simply. She looked at Charlotte. ‘I’ll see you back home this evening. Lily needs to open up shop. We all need to get
back to normal.’ Even as she said the words, inside her head she laughed bitterly. As if life would ever be normal again.
‘All right,’ Charlotte said, getting up and giving her sister a hug. ‘I’ll do the tea.’
Rosie gave a smile that was heartbreakingly sad. ‘No, you won’t. How about we get some fish and chips tonight?’
Charlotte wanted to cry because her sister was trying to be happy for her sake. Again, she thought of Peter’s letter.
‘Yeah,’ she faked enthusiastically, ‘I’d love that.’
And so Rosie returned to the world – even though inside she felt as though all life had been sucked out of her being. These past few days, she had cried more than she had ever cried before. She had read and reread Peter’s letter and tried her hardest to take strength from his words. But she was beaten. Her heart felt numb. She had no more tears.
During the past four nights, when she had fallen into a fitful sleep she had not dreamed about Peter – instead she had dreamed of the day her life had changed when she was fifteen and her uncle had raped her after her parents’ funeral. Her body had been violated that night, and she had known instinctively then that nothing would ever be the same.
Thinking back to the time following the rape, she recalled how she had learnt the skill of shutting off the horror, keeping it boxed up, only allowing it space every now and again, which had helped her to survive.
Now it was time to put the boxes in her head back in their place. It was the only way she could carry on and live this wretched, godforsaken life inflicted upon her. If not for herself, then she would do it for Charlotte. She could not abandon her sister.
Seeing Rosie back at work, no one would have guessed at the grief that lay just under the surface, as heavy as the metal sheets she and her squad were welding. The women knew, of course – just as they knew it was important that they play along and create a semblance of normality. And so they toiled as they always did with speed and determination. During break times, Dorothy and Angie worked hard at being the squad’s ‘terrible two’ with their litany of jokes and jibes, pushes and shoves. As soon as they were home, though, they dropped their façades and with heavy hearts went to see Mrs Kwiatkowski, who always seemed to say the right thing – even if that was nothing.