A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  ‘She’s more moody than normal – ’n quiet,’ she told Bill. ‘And when Isabelle’s quiet, she’s thinking, ’n I’ve gorra nasty feeling I knar exactly what that mind of hers is chewing over.’

  And with these thoughts of her daughter’s simmering need for retribution came images of Henrietta, her dark eyes imploring her Little Match Girl to come back and visit.

  The newspapers the women were reading every day at work seemed to verify that the war was going in their favour. The British 1st Infantry Division took the island of Pantelleria, between Tunisia and Sicily, capturing 11,000 Italian troops, followed shortly afterwards by the neighbouring island of Lampedusa. Five days later, the Allies bombed Sicily and the Italian mainland – showing that an invasion was imminent.

  In Germany, the RAF continued their attacks on the Ruhr valley – this time, though, families from the area were evacuated, much to the women’s relief.

  Later on in the month, American troops under the leadership of General Douglas MacArthur pushed for victory in the Pacific. They were landing troops in islands close to New Guinea, continuing their strategy of ‘island hopping’, which entailed taking over an island and establishing a military base, from which point they would launch another attack and another takeover of another island.

  Closer to home, it was reported that of the 322 soldiers from the town who made up the 125th Anti-Tank Regiment, known to have been in Singapore when it fell into Japanese hands, 204 were POWs.

  The mood was lifted when Gloria read out an article about how twenty-two-year-old Mrs Sarah Bambrough of Cleveland Road had given birth to triplets in Sunderland Municipal Hospital. There was, naturally, much shrieking and laughter. Polly did not find the suggestion that she too might have triplets at all amusing, nor Angie’s comments that ‘yer definitely big enough!’

  It was now five weeks since the last air raid and so far, the town’s sirens had been resting – but it was something the women would not talk about for fear of jinxing the respite.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday 1 July

  The launch of the armed cargo ship Greenwich at Doxford’s seemed to have attracted the whole town. Getting anywhere near the slipway on the south bank of the Wear was nigh on impossible.

  The reason: royalty. Minor royalty. But royalty all the same.

  ‘As this is the first time a member of the royal family is to perform the naming ceremony on an ordinary trader of the Merchant Navy,’ Rosie told the women with unusual solemnity, ‘we have been given a few hours off to go and watch the launch.’

  Rosie braced herself for Dorothy’s anticipated histrionics.

  She was not wrong to do so, for her words were immediately followed by an ear-splitting scream, which was accompanied by Dorothy raising her arms in the air as though she was a weightlifter raising a barbell and steadfastly holding it aloft. A few heads turned, but most of the platers and riveters they worked alongside had become accustomed to the regularity of Dorothy’s shrieks and screams and carried on with their own conversations.

  ‘Cor, how did you manage to wangle that, miss?’ Angie asked. She had mostly been successful in her bid to stop calling Rosie ‘miss’, but it still occasionally slipped out.

  ‘Yeah,’ Gloria said. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Me too.’ Martha dropped her voice. ‘How come we’ve got to go and others haven’t?’

  ‘Get your stuff together and I’ll tell you en route.’ Rosie looked up at the clock. ‘We’ve only got half an hour to get there, so we best get a shimmy on.’

  ‘Has Hannah been allowed to go too?’ Martha asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s coming without Olly?’ Dorothy asked.

  Rosie laughed. ‘That’s right. It’s a women-only jolly.’

  Dorothy and Angie looked as though they were going to burst with excitement. They hooked arms and did what could have passed as a synchronised Irish jig all the way to the drawing office.

  Rosie, Gloria and Martha followed, big grins on all three faces, all shaking their heads at the comic duo.

  ‘I’ve got to warn you,’ Helen said to Bel, ‘my grandfather’s going to be there – as well as my darling mother. Neither of them would miss rubbing shoulders with royalty for all the tea in China.’

  Bel hesitated. She had turned down the last invite, to the launch of HMS Bugloss, a Flower-class corvette at Crown’s, knowing Mr Havelock would be there. She’d done so because she couldn’t face the way seeing him left her feeling: angry, resentful – and in need of retribution.

  ‘I’d be mad not to go.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And besides, I can’t keep avoiding him for the rest of my life.’

  Or his. How she wished he’d drop down dead and out of their lives.

  ‘I can’t keep running away from him – like my mam’s done her whole life.’

  Helen remembered what Georgina had written in her report about Pearl stealing away in the middle of the night after the master had raped her. From what she could gather, she’d not stopped running since, one way or another.

  ‘Well, I think you’re being very brave,’ Helen said.

  ‘So, come on then, spill the beans,’ Angie said to Rosie as they all slipped under one of the ropes that segregated the townsfolk from the shipyard workers. Their uniform of oil-smeared denim overalls meant no one stopped them, although if they had, Rosie had been told to tell them that they had been asked to the occasion by Mr Royce Jnr, who everyone knew was very close to the Doxford family.

  ‘Well,’ Rosie said, pointing over to an area near the slipway that didn’t look too congested. ‘I was talking to Helen and she was saying that the Princess Royal was going to meet and chat briefly with some of the women shipyard workers at the yard.’

  ‘Really?’ Dorothy’s eyes were out on stalks.

  ‘Shame she couldn’t have come to one of our launches,’ Gloria said.

  They shouldered their way into a gap within spitting distance of the rostrum and the towering bow of the ship waiting patiently on the ways for her christening.

  ‘I’d never have had you down as a royalist, Glor,’ Dorothy said, grabbing Angie’s arm and pulling her into prime position in front of the barrier that had been put in place to keep the riff-raff away from the royalty.

  ‘And,’ Rosie continued, putting her hand on Hannah’s back and manoeuvring her into a gap where she would be able to see the proceedings, ‘we both agreed that as those women were getting a pat on the back by a princess for working in a shipyard, then we should also give our women shipbuilders a show of appreciation.’

  They had seen some of the other women who worked as general labourers at Thompson’s jump on a tram before them when they’d been walking along Dame Dorothy Street.

  ‘It’s a shame Polly didn’t feel up to coming,’ Martha said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Angie said. ‘I mean, she’s still one of us, isn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t blame her for not coming, though,’ Martha said.

  ‘I knar, she looks ready to drop, ’n she’s still got another two ’n a half months to gan.’

  They all heard a few cheers and claps.

  They craned their necks and could just see the Princess Royal in the distance. Dressed in her ATS uniform, she looked more like a general about to carry out an inspection of the troops.

  As she turned to shake hands with a waiting line of women workers, Dorothy quickly scanned the crowds and did a double take when she spotted a bird’s nest of orange hair.

  She nudged Angie.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she hissed into her ear. ‘Look who’s here.’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time I came to a launch,’ Lily said. She was standing next to Maisie. As she looked around, she was pleased they had arrived early and managed to get themselves a good position. They were near to where all the action was going to take place, but not too near. She didn’t want to attract too much attention, which was never easy – what with her looks and M
aisie’s caramel-coloured skin.

  ‘You probably don’t remember, because you’ve never been to one before,’ Maisie said, feeling a little uncomfortable. She too had never been to a launch, nor anywhere near any of the town’s yards, never mind practically within touching distance of a ship – a tramp steamer, no less. She had to chuckle to herself – tramp steamer.

  ‘No, I have!’ Lily suddenly remembered. ‘Must have been a good year and a half ago now. At Thompson’s. Dear me, how could I forget? It was the first ship launched after Rosie had trained up her women welders.’ She got out her fan and snapped it open.

  ‘A first for you, though, my dear.’ Lily looked at Maisie. ‘Not often, I’m guessing, you can lay claim to that.’

  Maisie allowed herself a smile. It wasn’t often that she was alone with Lily. And on the rare occasions it was just the two of them, she was sure her boss allowed herself to be a little bit more outrageous. Lily also dropped the faux French, reverting to her natural cockney – probably, Maisie guessed, because they were both Londoners.

  ‘Oh, there she is!’ Lily exclaimed.

  They both stared, just like everyone else, at Princess Mary, Countess of Harewood.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Lily whispered, ‘I don’t think much of her get-up. I thought she’d have made more of an effort. You’d think she was a man were it not for the skirt.’

  Maisie laughed. ‘She has to wear that. She’s commandant of the ATS.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Lily didn’t sound convinced. ‘Now, check out the woman next to her. That dress … that fascinator … Now that’s what I call class.’

  Maisie looked at the slim, blonde-haired woman Lily was ‘checking out’. The smile left her face. She looked at the small gaggle of VIPs who were strolling behind the Princess Royal and saw Mr Havelock. She felt herself bristle.

  She glanced at Lily.

  She too had gone a little sombre and was scrutinising the entourage of men and women following the Princess Royal as she made her way towards the rostrum.

  ‘Is that your sister I can see?’ Helen whispered to Bel. She’d just spotted Maisie standing next to the eccentric-looking woman with dyed auburn hair and make-up that looked as though it had been put on with a trowel. She’d seen her at Polly and Tommy’s wedding as well as Arthur’s funeral.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Bel said, surprised. ‘She didn’t tell me she was coming.’

  ‘Is there a husband about? Children?’ Helen asked. As she spoke, she spotted Matthew bobbing his way through the crowds and groaned inwardly.

  ‘Maisie? Married with children?’ Bel laughed. ‘No. No chance. She’s not the marrying kind – nor particularly maternal.’

  Helen wanted to find out what Maisie did for a living but thought it a bit rude to ask outright. She’d quizzed Gloria, but she’d said she didn’t know much about Maisie.

  ‘You sound very different from one another,’ she said.

  Damn, Matthew had spotted her and was waving.

  She pretended not to see him.

  ‘I think you could say we’re chalk and cheese. In looks and personality,’ Bel said. She was still looking at her sister, wondering why she was here. She could only think it was at Lily’s bidding. But then again, why would Lily want to come to a launch?

  ‘But it sounds as if you get on?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Yes, we do, strangely—’ Bel stopped short on catching sight of Princess Mary. ‘Oh, my goodness, here she is.’

  They stared, along with hundreds of others, as the Princess Royal came into view.

  ‘She’s in uniform,’ Bel said, surprised.

  The crowd cheered and waved. The Princess Royal smiled and slowed to chat to a few women shipyard workers who worked as ‘humpers’, helping the platers haul the huge metal sheets about.

  ‘From what I know,’ Helen said, ‘she’s a bit of royal radical – well, for a woman anyway. Pretty hands-on. Worked as a nurse. Does loads of charity work and – oh, blast!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bel looked at Helen.

  ‘It’s bloody Matthew,’ she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

  Bel looked around just in time to see Matthew apologising his way through the crowd. He was hard to miss. Bel reckoned he must be at least six foot, and there was no denying he was what Marie-Anne would call ‘a bit of dish’ with his short dark hair, the few streaks of grey only seeming to add to his attractiveness.

  ‘Blimey!’ he said, finally reaching them, his dark eyes on Helen. ‘Good job we don’t get royalty at every launch – the town would grind to a halt.’

  He tipped his fedora at Helen and Bel.

  Bel smiled. Helen didn’t.

  ‘Hello, Mr Royce,’ Bel said.

  ‘Mrs Elliot,’ Matthew replied.

  ‘Couldn’t have wanted a better day for it, could we?’ He looked up at the clear sky and squinted into the sun that had also come out for the day. ‘I see your grandfather’s graced us with his presence today,’ he went on.

  He didn’t notice the smile drop from Bel’s face.

  ‘Only a sudden death – and that being his own – would keep Grandpapa away today,’ Helen said, not attempting to disguise her disdain.

  Matthew laughed.

  ‘Nothing like families, eh?’ He looked at Bel. She always looked as white as a sheet.

  ‘Ahh, and your mother’s here too.’ He looked at Helen, who was giving her full attention to the Princess Royal as she made her way to the rostrum.

  ‘Looking very glamorous as always,’ he added. ‘Although taking the spotlight off the princess somewhat, it has to be said.’

  ‘Mr Royce,’ Helen said, as she continued looking straight ahead, ‘there really is no need for a running commentary. I feel like I’m standing next to a BBC radio correspondent.’

  Any more chatter was impossible anyway, as Princess Mary took the bottle of champagne and swung it with gusto at the bow of Greenwich. A huge cheer rang out.

  Bel tried to focus on the princess, but her gaze kept being drawn to her father. And sister. Half-sister. It suddenly occurred to her that both her sisters were within a stone’s throw of each other. She and Maisie might be at opposite ends of the spectrum looks-wise, but Miriam was her double. Just older.

  ‘That was a kind gesture your grandfather made the other day.’ Matthew had to speak loudly to be heard. ‘Giving that rather substantial cheque to the children’s hospital.’

  ‘Well, he can afford to be kind,’ Helen said. ‘It’s easy to give it away when you’ve lots of it.’

  Helen had just spoken Bel’s thoughts. She watched Mr Havelock step forward to chat to the princess as the huge chains attached to the Greenwich untangled themselves at a rapid rate before becoming taut as the ship was just about to hit the other side of the Wear.

  If only people knew. If only the Princess Royal knew. Would she be shaking his hand, giving him the time of day – chatting to him as she was now?

  ‘Still,’ Matthew said, persevering with his reverence of Mr Havelock, ‘you can’t deny your grandfather does an awful lot of good. I’d say a good few of the townsfolk wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for the money he gave to our hospitals – and the asylum.’ He looked at Helen, who remained tight-lipped.

  ‘And the money he invests in the shipyards,’ he added.

  ‘Invests being the optimum word,’ Helen said eventually. ‘As in he will make money from the shipyards. It’s hardly selfless.’

  ‘But the money he gives to the hospitals is,’ Matthew countered.

  He did not catch the look that passed between the woman he was determined to win over and her secretary. Each knew the other felt the same sense of shame at being related to such evil. An evil that did such a good job of manifesting itself as good.

  Gloria was finding it hard to keep her attention on the princess; her eyes automatically strayed back to Miriam.

  That woman! God, how she hated her.

  Gloria immediately scolded herself. Stop being so resentful!

&nb
sp; Age – and, even more, her marriage to Vinnie – had taught her that hate and resentment were self-destructive. It was hard, though. Hope being unwell had made her tired, sleep-deprived and irritable. Over the past month work had been unrelenting. It would have helped enormously if Jack had been there as a shoulder to lean on and an ear to moan to, but most of all so that her daughter could have had her dad about too and not just her mam.

  There they were again: the demons – hate and resentment – dancing about in her heart, stomping out love and happiness.

  Gloria watched as Mr Havelock introduced his daughter to Princess Mary.

  She felt a fleeting sense of joy as the Princess Royal gave Miriam all of a few seconds before turning and making her way back to the main building. There was no reason to loiter – Greenwich was already being tugged away.

  Gloria continued to watch, giving her dancing demons free rein.

  Miriam looked more like royalty than the Princess Royal.

  Miriam had always led a gilded life, always got what she wanted, regardless of what it took. She’d got Jack. Snatched her sweetheart right off her when she and Jack were about to get engaged – seduced him, lied to him, saying she was pregnant when she wasn’t. She’d got him down the aisle, lying again a few months later that she’d had a miscarriage.

  Watching Miriam chatting to the mayor, Gloria thought how relaxed she looked, so fresh – so unworn out. No wonder! She’d never had to work a day in her life. She’d never even had to cook or clean. She lived the life of Riley.

  Gloria eyed her perfectly coiffured hair, and felt her own dry, unruly hair breaking free from her headscarf. She saw Miriam’s hand shaking some bigwig’s as they tailed the princess. She could see her glossy red nails from here. Gloria glanced down at her own hands. They were dry and chafed – more like an old fishwife’s.

  But none of that really mattered. What did was the control Miriam had over her and Jack – how she was making their daughter suffer the absence of a father in her life.

  An absence that looked set to continue for an awful lot longer.