by Nancy Revell
‘I have no idea,’ Helen said. ‘Funnily enough, you’re not the first person to ask me that of late.’ She thought of Georgina Pickering, the private eye she had employed to find out about Bel’s parentage, whom she and John had nick-named ‘Miss Marple’. She, too, had asked about Helen’s grandmother.
They drove in silence for a while.
‘Well,’ Bel said, ‘if neither of us is sure what to do, let’s wait until we are. I hardly think he’ll want to know – and I’m not entirely sure I want him to know.’ Bel gave a long sigh. ‘And even if we confronted him, my feelings are he’d just deny it. There’s no proof. It’d be Ma’s word against his. And let’s face it – who are people going to believe? The great Mr Havelock, the people’s saviour, the man with money who gives to those in need – or my ma, a barmaid with barely two pennies to rub together, who’s had two children out of wedlock, one of whom is coloured. He’d probably just say Ma was after his money.’
‘Which is an interesting point,’ Helen said. ‘I wonder how the law would stand if it was proven that you’re family.’ Helen’s mind went to the report she had locked away in her office, compiled by her Miss Marple; it made for compelling reading. Whether or not the contents of that report would stand up in a court of law, though, was another matter.
As they approached the rather magnificent wrought-iron gates to W. Pickersgill & Sons, Helen asked, ‘When did you find out – about Grandfather?’
‘Well, like you, I got a little obsessed with discovering the truth. I’d always known Ma was lying when she said my da was dead, but when Maisie burst into our lives and there was all this talk about who her father was, it got me thinking.’
Helen knew that Pearl had given up Maisie for adoption just hours after giving birth to her in a Salvation Army hospital for unmarried mothers in London. Twenty-eight years later, Maisie, who was of mixed race, had tracked Pearl down, causing quite a stir when she’d declared herself at Bel and Joe’s wedding a year and a half ago.
‘Ma seemed happy to tell Maisie all about her da, a stoker from the West Indies, but she wouldn’t tell me about my father. It took me a while, but I managed to wear her down in the end.’
Helen looked surprised. She couldn’t imagine anyone wearing Pearl down. The woman was like granite. Which told Helen that Bel was a lot stronger – and harder – than she appeared on the surface.
‘She ended up taking me to your grandfather’s house – well, not to the house as such, but we walked along Glen Path and stood on the other side of the road.’ She felt a sudden well of emotion as she recalled that day. ‘That was back in June last year.’
‘And you’ve known all this time?’ Helen asked, suddenly realising that it was not long afterwards that Bel had applied for a job at the yard.
Bel nodded as one of the shipyard workers standing by the entrance waved them through. Another flat-capped man pointed to the parking area. They both saw Mr Havelock’s black Jaguar at the same time.
‘Oh, dear. I didn’t think he’d be here today. I heard he was at Doxford’s on Tuesday to see the launch of Avon-moor.’ Before Helen had agreed to come here today in place of Harold, she had got Marie-Anne to find out if her grandfather had attended the earlier launch. ‘He never does two launches in a week.’ Helen felt herself panic. This had taken her by surprise.
She looked at Bel, who looked equally stricken.
‘If Grandfather’s here, it goes without saying Mother will be here too.’ Helen started fishing around in her handbag for her Pall Malls and lighter.
‘You don’t have to come up to the launch,’ she said, opening the passenger door and then lighting her cigarette. ‘If you want to go and see Dahlia and have a cup of tea with her, I can meet you back here afterwards?’
Bel thought for a moment. Part of her desperately wanted to run all the way back home to Joe and Agnes. They would wrap her up in love and tell her she never had to go anywhere near the man who was her father if she didn’t want to.
But she knew she couldn’t.
It was time to face her fears.
‘No, I’m coming,’ she said.
Chapter Nine
‘And God bless all those who sail in her!’
The sound of cheers and horns was deafening as SS Chiswick slowly and with a certain majesty ploughed her way into the river. As always, the sound of jubilation dropped a little while the tugs did what they had been designed to do and coerced the newly-born around so as to avoid the other side of the riverbank, manoeuvring her with just the right amount of pull to keep her on an even keel.
Bel had not seen the launch as she had been keeping an eye on Mr Havelock and Miriam. She had forced herself to look at them, albeit surreptitiously; it was as though by acquainting herself with their every nuance, it might diminish their power and therefore lessen her own anxieties.
As SS Chiswick reached the fitting-out quay, the spectators turned to go home and the shipyard workers made their slow return to the adjacent basin, where there stood another half-built vessel that would soon follow Chiswick down the ways.
Bel thought that she and Helen might have escaped having to chat to Mr Havelock and Miriam. When they’d arrived, Helen had waved over to them, but the pair had been surrounded by the town’s dignitaries and bigwigs, all demanding their attention. Then the proceedings had begun, speeches were made, a bottle of champagne smashed, and the ship birthed. But just as they were turning to make their way out of the main VIP area, she heard Miriam call out.
‘Helen, darling, how lovely to see you!’
They both turned round to see Miriam and Mr Havelock just a few feet away.
‘I had to check it was you, I see you so little these days,’ Miriam said, leaving Mr Havelock in conversation with the mayor.
‘Hello, Mother, I didn’t think you’d be here.’ Helen made a point of looking down at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the Grand? Honestly, they’ll be sending out a search party for you if you don’t get your skates on.’
Miriam let out a tinkle of laughter that was more becoming to a young girl than a middle-aged woman.
‘My daughter has a very wicked sense of humour,’ Miriam said, squinting as she scrutinised Bel. ‘I recognise you, my dear, from Christmas Day. The welder’s wedding.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Elliot, that’s it, Mrs Elliot, isn’t it?’
Miriam threw her daughter a triumphant look before returning her attention to Bel.
‘My daughter likes to claim age is causing my memory to fast deteriorate, so I like to prove her wrong whenever I get the chance.’ She offered her hand. ‘Nice to meet you again, Mrs Elliot.’
Bel shook hands and forced a smile.
‘Helen, good to see you!’
Miriam moved aside to give her father centre stage. Charles Havelock was wearing a black three-piece suit, starched white shirt and a red tie.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, my dear,’ he said, looking Helen up and down. ‘Where’ve you been? No, don’t tell me! I know.’ He stabbed the ground with the end of his ebony walking stick. ‘You’ve been working flat out at that yard of yours.’ He patted the back of his slicked-back grey hair. ‘Well, I certainly hope Mr Thompson appreciates you devoting your life to that place?’ Someone he knew caught his eye and he waved to them. ‘Anyway, what’s this about you learning to drive? Eddy told me you borrowed the car the other day. Good for you, my dear. Good for you!’
It was clear to Bel that Mr Havelock had no interest in hearing the answer to any of his questions.
‘I’m guessing you’re here in lieu of Harold?’ he said.
Suddenly he did a double take as his attention was caught by Bel.
‘And who, may I ask, is this?’
‘This, Grandfather, is Mrs Isabelle Elliot. She’s my secretary. We’ve got a meeting with Mr Royce in a few minutes, so we best be making tracks.’
‘Hold your horses, Helen. Where have your manners gone?’ He put his hand out. Bel noticed he was wearing a gold Masonic ring
.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Elliot.’
Bel hesitated for a fraction of a moment.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t bite.’ Mr Havelock laughed. ‘Much as some might claim.’
Bel forced herself to shake hands.
As though realising her reluctance, Mr Havelock held on to Bel’s hand, squeezing it tight and clamping his other hand on top of it. She resisted the urge to yank it away.
‘We’ve not met before, have we?’ His watery pale blue eyes narrowed. Bel felt as though he could see right through her.
‘Mrs Elliot was at Arthur Watts’s funeral,’ Helen butted in, ‘with her little girl Lucille, and her husband Joe. He was in his regimental uniform.’
‘Yes, yes, Seventh Armoured Division. Desert Rat. Bad leg. Shrapnel injury. I remember him. And, of course, his wife.’ He kept staring at Bel. ‘Never one to forget a pretty face.’ He finally let go of Bel’s hand.
‘Mr Havelock! Mrs Crawford!’
They all turned to see the photographer from the Sunderland Echo standing with his camera held to his chest. He had lined up a row of suited men wearing either bowler hats or flat caps. A space had been left in the middle.
‘Duty calls,’ Mr Havelock said, giving Bel one last, curious look.
And with that Mr Havelock and Miriam turned and were gone. Much to Bel and Helen’s relief.
‘Let’s go before we get hooked in as well,’ Helen said, knowing that as soon as the photographer realised there was a third-generation Havelock in his midst, she’d be coerced into posing and playing happy families.
‘You all right?’ Helen said as they walked across the yard.
‘Yes,’ Bel said, her voice croaky as she realised she hadn’t spoken a word during the whole interaction. ‘Do you really have a meeting with Mr Royce?’ She desperately wanted to get as far away as possible from Helen’s family – from her family. She felt trapped.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll make it as quick as I can – although I have to warn you, the old man does go on.’
‘Miss Crawford! Lovely to meet you at long last!’
Helen and Bel had just been shown into the manager’s office by Dahlia, whom Helen thought seemed very chirpy and rosy-cheeked. On seeing the man who was presently greeting them, she realised why. He was the epitome of tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous.
‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, ‘but we’ve got a meeting with Mr Royce today.’
‘I know, but I’m afraid you’ve got me instead. My father has had a minor stroke, so I’m the stand-in.’ Mr Royce’s son stood up straight, walked round the desk and put his hand out. ‘Matthew Royce, but please, call me Matthew. I have an aversion to formalities.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t have an aversion to formalities,’ Helen said, shaking his hand. ‘So, please, call me Miss Crawford. And –’ she turned to Bel ‘– this is Mrs Elliot, my secretary.’
Half an hour later, they were walking back to the car. Bel was thinking lots and saying nothing.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Helen said, looking across the yard and comparing it to Thompson’s. It was smaller and therefore, in her eyes, not as impressive.
‘What’s that?’ Bel said. She was also looking around the yard, although her reason for doing so was to check that Mr Havelock and Miriam were nowhere to be seen.
‘You were thinking,’ Helen said, ‘that I was a little hard on Mr Matthew Royce and his aversion to formalities.’
Bel smiled and nodded.
‘The thing is,’ Helen said, ‘he would never have said that to my father – or grandfather, or any other yard manager, for that matter. So why should we be any different? Just because we’re women?’
By now they had reached the car.
Helen started fishing about in her handbag for her keys.
‘And if Mr Royce thinks me rude, then I say, tough. I’m not in this business to be liked.’
Matthew Royce was standing at the window of his office looking out over the yard. He had both hands in his pockets and a big smile on his face as he watched Miss Crawford and her secretary walk over to a rather snazzy little green sports car. His eyes widened on seeing Miss Crawford walk to the driver’s side, then pull out a set of keys from her handbag.
He continued to watch with growing fascination as she very elegantly lowered her very shapely behind into the driver’s seat and swung a pair of equally shapely legs into the footwell.
‘Dahlia …’ he called out, keeping his eyes glued to the car as it slowly made its way out of the main gates.
‘Yes, Matthew?’ Dahlia stood, lipstick freshly applied, at the door to his office.
‘You know what’s-her-name … the Irish girl from Thompson’s?’
‘Marie-Anne?’
‘That’s the one. You two get on, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we do. She was just on the phone earlier.’
‘Well, wheedle out of her a list of all Miss Crawford’s up-and-coming engagements … There’s a good girl.’
Chapter Ten
A few minutes after Helen had walked back into her office and bent down to give a surly-looking Winston a stroke, she saw a note on her desk informing her that John had called. Feeling her heart leap with joy, she reprimanded herself.
How sad it was to have only just realised that the excitement she had always felt on seeing John – or even just speaking with him – was not normal when someone was simply a friend. God, she could beat herself with a stick to pay penitence for her total stupidity. Why hadn’t she realised that she’d had those feelings because she was in love with him?
She picked up the phone and dialled a number she knew by heart.
‘Good afternoon, the Ryhope Emergency Hospital.’
‘Afternoon, Denise, how are you?’
Helen listened but didn’t hear a word.
‘That’s good to hear. Can you put me through to Dr Parker, please?’
There were a few moments of dead air before there was a click and Denise was back.
‘Sorry, Miss Crawford, but there’s no answer. Shall I tell him you called?’
‘Yes, please, Denise. Tell him to call me when he gets the chance.’
Helen hung up. The ball was in his court now. She didn’t want to be one of those women who didn’t know that two’s company and three’s a crowd.
A few minutes after taking the call, Denise spotted Dr Eris walking through the main entrance.
‘Hello, Denise, how are you today?’ Dr Eris asked.
‘I’m good, Dr Eris. Thank you.’ She hesitated, not wanting to seem overfamiliar. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to see Dr Parker by any chance?’
‘As it happens, I am. Did you want to pass on a message?’
‘You must be a mind-reader as well as a mind-mender,’ Denise joked.
Dr Eris laughed. ‘If only!’
‘Can you tell him that Miss Crawford called, please? She said for him to call whenever it’s convenient.’
‘Leave it with me, Denise.’
‘Here! Catch!’ One of the workers had grabbed his mate’s flat cap and was tossing it across to another worker. As he did so, he bumped into Polly, causing her to stagger a little and grab hold of the ferry’s railing.
‘Watch it!’ Bel bellowed at the men. ‘There’s a pregnant woman here yer just about to push into the Wear!’
‘Sorry, pet. We didn’t realise,’ the man said, looking down at Polly’s bump.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Polly said, self-consciously pulling her cardigan tighter. Taking Bel by the arm, she manoeuvred her so that they were looking towards the mouth of the river. Bel’s explosion of temper had shocked her far more than the shove itself. As had the way Bel had spoken. She’d sounded just like her ma. Not that she’d dare say so, otherwise she might well end up in the Wear after all.
‘Are you all right?’ Polly asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Bel said, ‘it just really annoys me when buffoons like that are messing
about with no consideration for anyone else around them.’
Polly glanced at her sister-in-law – her face was full of fight. She squeezed her arm.
‘Come on, Bel, tell me. What’s up?’ she asked. ‘We’ve known each other since we were bairns. It’s not often I see you angry, but when I do there’s always a reason – and it’s not because of someone having a lark around.’
Bel was quiet for a moment.
‘Lucille’s almost the same age as we were when we first met …’ she said.
‘It seems a long time ago now, doesn’t it?’ Polly said.
‘It does and it doesn’t.’ Bel looked down at the dark, murky water slapping against the side of the paddler steamer. ‘Sometimes it feels just like yesterday.’
‘You were sat on your doorstep, crying your eyes out …’ Polly said.
‘…’cos Ma had gone off with some spiv,’ Bel finished her sentence.
The two women moved to the front of the ferry as it reached the south docks. Polly blushed as the men who had been playing piggy in the middle with the flat cap now splayed out their arms to stop others from pushing through, allowing Polly and Bel to get off first.
‘Thank you,’ Polly said. She glanced at Bel, who forced a smile.
As they made their way up to High Street East, they walked in silence until they turned left into Norfolk Street.
‘It must have been a bit strange for you, going to a launch with Helen this afternoon?’ Polly asked tentatively.
Bel ignored the question, instead looking to her left at the Norfolk House pub. It was beginning to fill up with workers who had finished their shift.
‘Ma loved that pub,’ Bel said. There was no nostalgia in her voice, just hardness.
Polly didn’t say anything. She knew the pub had been one of Pearl’s haunts as they had gone looking for her there the evening she’d gone on a bender after Maisie’s revelation at Bel’s wedding.
‘I loved that pub because every time Ma went there, she’d go off with some bloke round the back and then afterwards we’d go and get some fish ’n chips.’