A Christmas Wish for the Shipyard Girls

by Nancy Revell

  And it can’t come fast enough.

  ‘You feeling all right?’ Agnes said. She had asked the same question every morning for the past week.

  ‘Fine, Ma, honestly,’ Polly said. She had given the same answer every morning for the past week.

  Polly poured herself a cup of tea as Agnes ladled porridge into her bowl. She could hear Bel and Joe getting up. Even though they slept in the attic room, you could still hear Joe’s stick on the wooden floorboards, and their bedroom door had a creak that no amount of oil seemed to cure.

  ‘Actually,’ Polly added, ‘I’ve felt surprisingly well this past day or so. Like I’ve got a bit more energy.’ She laughed. ‘Not that that would be hard.’

  Agnes looked at her daughter as she stirred a little milk and sugar into her hot oats. ‘Yer don’t have to work right up to the birth, yer know? No one will think any less of yer if yer pack in today ’n just put yer feet up for the next two weeks.’

  ‘I know they wouldn’t, Ma,’ Polly said, looking across at the dogs curled up in their basket. ‘But unlike Tramp and Pup, I’d go mad if I was just sat around all day.’ She blew on a spoonful of porridge. ‘And it’s not as if working in the office is exactly physically demanding. I’m sat down most of the time – on top of which, I’m sure Helen’s told Marie-Anne to give me the easiest, least demanding work possible—’

  ‘Filing, filing and more filing,’ Agnes butted in, repeating the words she had heard dozens of times since her daughter had given her timekeeper’s job over to the little miner’s lad. She laughed. ‘Wait till yer’ve had the little ’un, then yer’ll be begging to go back to all that lovely filing.’

  There was no one there – just the two of them. He watched as she came towards him, her emerald eyes not once leaving him, showing him her love. He felt his lips touch hers as he bent down and kissed her.

  He could taste her lips; smell her as he kissed her face and neck.

  She loved him.

  She loved him as he loved her.

  And desired him as much as he desired her.

  ‘Dr Parker.’ Louder. ‘Dr Parker.’

  Dr Parker opened his eyes. Startled. Where was he?

  ‘Sorry, Dr Parker, but you’re needed on the ward. Bit of an emergency.’

  It was one of the junior consultants and he had a look of worry and uncertainty – a constant for those in their first year of practice.

  Dr Parker sat up and raked his hair back. He was in the on-call room. Or rather, cupboard. There was just enough room for a single bed and not much else. The junior consultant’s face was staring at him from behind the door, which was allowing in enough light for Dr Parker to scrabble around for his shoes. He was still wearing his white doctor’s coat and stethoscope. He must have crashed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  As he followed his colleague down the corridor, he tried to bring the image of Helen with him, to keep the feeling of her lips on his, and the smell of her natural perfume. But it was no good; before he knew it, he was back to reality.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re glad the schools are back?’ Helen asked.

  Rosie was sitting in her office. They had just finished discussing what new equipment was required and where Rosie’s squad was needed next.

  ‘Mmm, just a bit.’ Rosie sighed.

  ‘She’s a good worker,’ Helen said as she stroked a purring Winston. ‘There’ll always be a place here for her if she wants a job – temporary or otherwise.’

  Rosie looked through the window and saw Polly sitting down at a large desk, sorting out sheets of papers into piles. With her bump pressing against the edge of the desk, she was having to stretch her arms out fully to reach.

  ‘I’ll tell her that, she’ll be chuffed. Praise from the scary Miss Crawford is praise indeed,’ Rosie said.

  Helen laughed. ‘Her fear of me is all your fault. You told me to be awful to her when she first tipped up here? Remember? Be a bitch, I think were my orders.’

  Rosie chuckled, remembering the day well, although she doubted Helen had ever taken orders from anyone.

  ‘I’m guessing, though,’ Helen said, pulling out her packet of Pall Malls, ‘that a job in a Sunderland shipyard is not what you envision for your sister’s future?’

  ‘Well, I would like her to go to university,’ Rosie said.

  ‘In other words, she is going to go to university.’ Helen took out a cigarette, but didn’t light it.

  ‘She seems keen,’ Rosie said, ‘but I don’t think she wants to go far afield – she keeps saying Durham and Newcastle have good reputations.’

  ‘Sorry for interrupting.’

  Rosie turned around to see Marie-Anne in the doorway. She was holding aloft a copy of the Sunderland Echo.

  ‘You’ve made the headlines again,’ Marie-Anne said, trying her hardest to hold back her excitement, but failing. ‘Along with Mr Royce Junior, of course.’ She walked over, opened the paper at the appropriate page and laid it out on Helen’s desk. ‘Dahlia and I think you make a good couple.’ Marie-Anne knew she was overstepping the mark but was unable to help herself. She’d just got off the phone with Matthew’s secretary and they had both worked themselves up into a frenzy, saying how it would be the wedding of the year.

  ‘I have to agree.’ Rosie was leaning forward to get a good look at the photograph of Helen looking very glamorous next to Mr Royce at the launch on Tuesday.

  ‘Goodness, don’t you start too, Rosie,’ said Helen. She looked across into the office and saw Polly waddling her way towards the exit.

  ‘Marie-Anne, begone!’ she said, shooing her away with her hands. ‘And check on Polly. That must be the fifth time she’s gone to the loo today.’

  Marie-Anne turned, stifling her irritation. The woman was preggers. Everyone knew pregnant women were always going to the bloody bog!

  Helen turned over the page.

  ‘Looks like Georgina’s getting her foot in the door with the local rag,’ she said, turning the paper round so Rosie could see. ‘She’s not daft. Looks like she’s covered the launch of Cormea at Austin’s, knowing that the Echo photographer would have been at Doxford’s.’

  ‘Good photo,’ Rosie said, ‘not that I know much about these things, but there’s something quite striking about it.’

  They chatted for a little longer – work talk.

  In the corner of her eye, Helen saw Polly come back into the office and Marie-Anne obeying instructions and seeing if she was all right.

  ‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ Rosie said, standing up. ‘I’ll leave that order with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said, looking down at the list she had made, ‘and we’re agreed, we’ll definitely get you a trainee if Polly doesn’t want to come back after the baby’s born.’

  As Rosie made her way out, she saw Bel chatting to her sister-in-law. Polly looked pale, and the way she was arching her back, she was clearly in discomfort. Her mind slipped back to Hope’s birth here in this very yard. Lightning didn’t strike twice, did it? No. Besides, Polly had another fortnight to go – on top of which, she had that stitch to keep the baby in. Mind you, judging by the size of Polly, she doubted a stitch would do much good if the baby did decide to come early.

  As Dr Parker headed back to the on-call cupboard room, he looked at his watch.

  Only another hour and he was off.

  Thank goodness. He’d found it hard to concentrate since he’d had the dream.

  It was becoming more frequent.

  Kicking off his shoes, he flopped down on the bed, lying on his back with his hands clasped on his chest.

  Part of him hoped to fall back into Helen’s arms, to lose himself in her face, her kisses, but then again he hoped he wouldn’t – the pain when he woke and realised that what had felt so real was purely a fantasy was unbearable.

  The insanity of it all was that whenever he had ‘the dream’ he felt guilty when he saw Claire – as though he had been unfaithful to her somehow.

  He forc
ed his eyes shut, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Only a heavy dose of what he’d just given his last patient would get him anywhere near sleep.

  After Rosie left, Helen lit her cigarette and looked down at the sepia photograph of her and Matthew in the Echo. It had been quite an occasion for various reasons.

  She tapped her Pall Mall in the ashtray.

  She’d have to have a word with Matthew. She wanted to make sure he’d got the message, and that he didn’t think she wasn’t just playing hard to get.

  She didn’t mind having her photo taken with him, or even chatting to him; she quite enjoyed their verbal sparring, but she did not want him – or anyone else.

  Anyone else apart from John, of course.

  But that was out of the question.

  A pipe dream.

  It could never be a reality.

  The whole yard was working hard – their toil made harder still by the fact that the weather was still glorious. Autumn was slow off the mark this year, not that anyone was complaining – even the women admitted they would rather be hot and sweaty than freezing cold or, worse, wet and at the mercy of the mighty north-east wind.

  This afternoon, Rosie, Gloria, Martha, Dorothy and Angie were working on the deck of an injured cargo vessel that had been dragged into the slipway over the weekend. They were repairing the ship’s funnel where, Rosie had explained to them, in peacetime there’d have been an upper mast, but at the start of the war they’d been removed to evade detection by the enemy. The women had laughed and said they might as well have left the mast up, judging by the number of bullet and shrapnel holes they were now having to patch up.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it, Dr Parker?’

  Dr Parker looked at Mr Sullivan. The old man had both gnarly hands gripped to the large steering wheel, concentrating on his driving.

  ‘Yes, it is – lovely,’ Dr Parker agreed, even though all he could see was Helen’s face, her eyes, as she leant in to kiss him. It had seemed so real. And now, unbelievably, here he was, acting on a dream! Was he crazy? Did he really believe that the dream might be true?

  ‘Where yer headed for in town?’ Mr Sullivan asked. ‘I can drop you off anywhere yer want.’

  Dr Parker looked out the window. They were still on the Ryhope Road, but it would only be a few minutes before they were hitting the town centre.

  ‘Drop me off at the Wearmouth Bridge, Mr Sullivan, if you don’t mind. That’d be great. I can walk from there.’

  ‘Yer sure? I can take yer right to where yer going? To the door?’

  ‘No, thanks anyway, the bridge’ll be fine. The walk will do me good.’

  Five minutes later, the old man was indicating and pulling over at the top of Bridge Street.

  ‘You take care, Dr Parker,’ he said. He’d known the doctor for a good while now and had never seen him in such a daze.

  ‘Thanks again, Mr Sullivan.’ Dr Parker slammed the door. He heard someone beep as the old man drove away.

  Taking a deep breath, Dr Parker hurried down Bridge Street and across the Wearmouth Bridge. Looking down at the river to his right, he could see his destination.

  J.L. Thompson & Sons, Shipbuilders.

  He looked at his watch. It was nearly five o’clock. Helen would be there. Even if she’d been to a launch elsewhere in the town, she’d be back at her desk now. And if she wasn’t, he’d find out where she was and track her down. He had to put an end to this insanity.

  By the end of the day he was going to feel either the biggest chump on earth, or the happiest man alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dr Parker’s coat flapped open, but he didn’t notice. Nor did he feel the warm breeze in the air, or see those he was hurrying past, or hear the squeal of a tram’s brakes. His mind was elsewhere. Never before had he experienced such an overpowering urge to act on what he knew was a fabrication of his own mind.

  ‘Watch yerself, mate!’

  Dr Parker stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised as the man, grumbling, carried on his way.

  He’d argued with himself that any self-respecting doctor would know that a dream is simply the subconscious uncovering the wishes that the conscious mind has learnt to repress.

  That was Freud’s take on it anyway.

  That was what Claire believed.

  Claire!

  What on earth was he doing? Claire was lovely. Intelligent. Funny. Attractive. They got on like a house on fire. He liked her. A lot. She liked him. A lot.

  So, why was he striding like a mad man towards another woman? A woman who, until recently, he really did not think loved him. She’d hardly bothered with him much of late, rarely returning his phone calls. He hadn’t thought she was remotely interested in him …

  That was – until this dream. This damnable dream that had changed everything. That had caused him to go a little insane.

  But this dream didn’t feel like wishful thinking. It felt different. As though it was giving him a message. One that said, loud and clear:

  Helen loves you.

  She wants to be with you.

  And he so wanted to be with her.

  He turned right, down to the yard.

  It was time to find out the truth.

  The first person Dr Parker saw when he walked into the main office was Helen.

  She looked up the moment he stepped through the main doors.

  His heart felt as though it really had missed a beat. She looked exactly as she had in his dream. Those green eyes looking straight at him—

  But then he heard a familiar sound.

  A very real and familiar sound.

  Someone was in pain.

  He tore his attention away from Helen and looked over to see Polly, hunched over in agony, sitting, or rather perching, on one of the wooden chairs.

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’ Helen shouted across the office. She was by one of the desks. She banged the handset she was holding back into the cradle.

  Dr Parker looked around – taking in the scene for the first time.

  Bel was ushering the office workers out, telling them all to grab their bags and gas masks and leave.

  ‘Don’t worry about coming back,’ she told them, looking across to Helen for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, yes! Go!’ Helen agreed, before looking around for her secretary.

  ‘Marie-Anne!’ she ordered. ‘Go and make sure the young timekeeper – God, I always forget his name …’

  ‘Davey,’ Marie-Anne said.

  ‘Tell Davey to expect the ambulance – make sure the gates are open and the way clear,’ Helen commandeered.

  Dodging the flow of workers hurrying towards the door, Dr Parker strode over to Polly. He bobbed down in front of her as Marie-Anne rushed past him.

  ‘Tell me what’s happening?’ he asked, keeping his voice calm.

  Polly’s face was flushed, and she was scrunched up in agony.

  ‘Pain,’ she said, puffing out air. ‘Contractions …’ more puffing ‘… I think.’

  ‘She’s gone into labour,’ Helen said, walking towards him as Bel herded the last of the workers out of the main office and shut the door.

  Dr Parker turned his attention back to Polly.

  ‘Has Dr Billingham taken your stitch out?’

  She grabbed Dr Parker’s hand and instead of crying out in pain, squeezed it with such strength that it was John who thought he might shout out in agony.

  ‘No, he hasn’t!’ Polly said, panicked.

  ‘All right. That’s all right,’ Dr Parker reassured. ‘When are you due?’

  Polly didn’t answer; instead, she sucked in air.

  ‘Oh my God, here’s another,’ she gasped, before bending over and squeezing his hand again. Dr Parker thought this time his circulation had been cut off.

  ‘She’s due in two weeks,’ Helen said, her eyes holding John’s attention, speaking her fear.

  ‘Is it too early? Is the baby going to be all right?’ Polly blurted ou
t as she lifted her head up. Her face was covered in sweat and was blotchy red.

  Bel hurried around to Polly’s right side and took hold of her other hand.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Parker said. ‘It’s not too early. Your baby’s going to be fine. But we do need to get you to the hospital … and quick.’

  He looked back up at Helen, who was wringing her hands, her face white with worry.

  ‘I’ve called the ambulance,’ she said. ‘It should be here any minute.’

  Just then the doors swung open and Marie-Anne came rushing in.

  ‘Has it arrived?’ Helen shouted out.

  ‘Not yet,’ Marie-Anne said, her eyes glued on Polly.

  ‘Go and stand by the window!’ Helen barked. ‘Tell us as soon as you see it.’

  ‘Oh no …’ Polly said, staring down at the floor.

  Everyone followed her gaze.

  There was a pool of water.

  Dr Parker looked around the office and then up at Helen and Bel. ‘Can you clear that table over there?’ He cocked his head at the large wooden table that was used to sort the mail.

  They both hurried across the office.

  Helen pushed piles of letters, papers and files off the table with both hands. Bel picked up what she could and put it on a neighbouring desk. They both lifted the table into the middle of the room.

  Polly looked at it and then at Helen, Bel and Dr Parker.

  ‘I can’t have the baby here!’ she said, aghast. ‘I’ve got to go to hospital.’

  Her face scrunched up in agony again.

  ‘Dr Billingham …’ was all she managed to say before the iron fist gripped her insides again. The pain was unbearable. She’d never known such agony in her entire life.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Parker said. ‘We’ll get you to the hospital as soon as the ambulance turns up …’ He looked over at a grave-looking Marie-Anne, who shook her head. ‘In the meantime, we just need to get you on the table and have a look at what’s going on.’

  Polly tried to stand but was hit by more pain.

  ‘My back’s killing me,’ she said, looking at Dr Parker.

  ‘That’s normal too,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s try and get her onto the table.’ John glanced at Helen. She caught his look of concern and returned one of her own.